


Golden Chimera

by Telsiree



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comedy, Crests (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Divine Pulse (Fire Emblem), F/F, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Garreg Mach Monastery (Fire Emblem), Gen, Glacial Burn, Glacial Romances, High Fantasy, Identity Issues, M/M, Malazan Empire meets Fire Emblem, Nonbinary Character, Novelization, POV Multiple, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Talking, glacial build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 292,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22904302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telsiree/pseuds/Telsiree
Summary: What if Byleth had a mom, growing up?What if Sothis didn't have amnesia?What if Jeralt became the Professor of the Golden Deer?What if the Agarthans were a real threat, one that even Edelgard and Hubert could see?Read on, and find out...
Relationships: Dedue Molinaro/Bernadetta von Varley, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Marianne von Edmund, Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Petra Macneary, Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan, Jeralt Reus Eisner & Rhea, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 179
Kudos: 331





	1. The Beginning And The End

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! You're in for a ride. AU question...what if the doctor who diagnosed Byleth followed the ex-Knight Jeralt into mercenary life? What if Sothis didn't have amnesia?
> 
> Plus a lot of attempts to stab the lore of FE:3H into something approaching common sense.
> 
> Also an AU: What if characters talked to each other at Garreg Mach? Quelle Surprise!! So part of this is popping those dialogue balloons as soon as possible, and seeing how far we can take everyone as early as possible in that first year of 1180, while still trying to remain in decent canon character. A lot of canon/fanon pairings but also some rarepairs. I will try not to kill any of our babies but no promises. I'm driving alone along this road, and the headlights only let me see so far.
> 
> All characters and settings are property of their respective owners, Intelligent Systems and Nintendo. This is a work solely for personal enjoyment and not for profit. I prohibit the right of anyone reposting or copying this work without my explicit consent.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With bitterness Ashen-Shugar said, "There is no right. Only power."
> 
> Alone of his kind, only he understood the mocking irony of his words.
> 
> \--
> 
> Feist.

Ch 1.

The Beginning and The End

A child's voice whispers in the void.

*

_I am That Which Is Behind Time._

_I am Existence Eternal._

_I am Being Beyond Being._

_I am Sothis._

_I am The Beginning._

A pause, in which a thousand years pass, and none.

 _Witness this Truth!_ the voice cries. _It shall lead to other Truths, but only one you may Choose. Only one may you Bear. And only one you may Keep._

_WITNESS!_

*

The rain shields the light of the sun, making the sky a shade of iron, mirrored below by the armor of knights on horses, helmed and armored with the finest metal the Imperial Guarda could supply. Men and women of the cavalry units file their mounts into cadres, with gloved hands tightening straps, and subdued voices muttering grim prayers or quiet, useless assurances. Overhead, the pegasi wheel in agitation, their riders straining to quiet their mounts excited by the scents of battle, the sharp tang of metal and the acrid one of fear. Infantry and archers line up behind calvary, with tense sergeants straining to control their soldiers’ behavior, veterans and recruits alike. Officers and messengers run back and forth through the ranks and argue with each other, a grim sign that battle is imminent.

Nemesis, the Black King, and his Army of The Elite was now approaching their position, according to the scouts. The Emperor and Lady Seiros herself had marshaled the bulk of the Imperial Army to meet the King of Liberation’s hordes here, on the Tailtean Plains, an empty windstruck land of grass and mud hunted clean by war.

The veterans in the ranks of the Imperial Guarda held no illusions. The man who could cleave mountains with his sword could only do one thing to human flesh. Death might be inevitable for those on the front lines, but they could possibly make their deaths mean something, rather than nothing. Yet each burned for the chance to not die, and perhaps even take out The Black King by themselves. It was a comforting delusion to muse about before the actual terror of combat, where all control and thought vanished. The recruits were besides themselves, some pasty white with fear and trembling, others quietly vomiting or voiding themselves in their armor without shame.

Suddenly, it is time. Lord Cichol and Lady Cethleann fly by on their magnificent mounts, a jet black wyvern and a pale white pegasus, and pause by each troop and company, blessing them in the Goddess' Holy Name. The more pious soldiers dutifully recite the Scripture of Seiros, but the veterans laugh and shout blasphemous obscenities back at the Lord and Lady. Order is quickly restored in the ranks by the caustic words of Lord Macuil, his hands flaming with his twin swords flashing as they float beside him, or the pitiless, inhuman gaze of Lord Indech, standing tall in his rusted plate armor with his shining magical longbow nocked and half-drawn.

Then _she_ took to the field. Walking bright and tall like an emerald jewel come to life, the Lady Seiros herself walked silently through the ranks of her Holy Army.

Contrary to their braggadocio, most soldiers of the Imperial Guarda had never seen the Lady Seiros. She was a recluse, rumour said, given to constant holy prayer and meditation, or consultations with her husband, the Great Emperor Wilheim. So the stories told over the generations of endless war. Yet now she strode from the Emperor's vast and ornate command tent behind the front and slowly made a place for herself at the head of the Imperial Army, ignoring all comments or entreaties from her soldiers as she passed. A magnetic, fey brilliance seemed to surround this beautiful figure with a glowing sword sheathed at her hip and mighty reflective shield loosely held at her side, the golden dragon tiara on her head only heightening her splendor. Her pale green hair covered her ears and trailed down her back, unbraided, and wreathed a face flawless in fierce granite beauty. The effect on the army of thousands was immediate and electric as soldiers and officers alike spread the word.

The Goddess was with them. Lady Seiros would share the peril with her soldiers against the Black King. She would stand and bleed as one of them.

A mighty roar went up from the host, that was echoed by the Pegasi flights crying overhead.

Then another dull susurration of a roar, one tinged with finality and despair, responded back at the Imperial army across the dim shadows of the plain, through the rain that suddenly stabbed down like needles.

The Black King's horde had arrived. And even hundreds of yards away through sheets of mist and fog, the soldiers of the Imperial Guarda could see the ruby light of promised Death, the weapon of the Fell King Nemesis. The sword which could cut through anything.

The cheers of the Imperial Guarda sagged pitifully and died in throats. Some men and women in the ranks drew back in fear, yet shouts from the three Lords and Lady eased their burdens and calmed many hearts. Then the Lady Seiros stepped forward ahead of her troops, standing alone where all could see a glimpse of her, and regally drew her sword. Raising it, she wheeled about to face the Imperial army. The dim light beyond the clouds reflected on her blade and flashed it to a diamond brilliance, a matching beacon of bright hope to the red and dark glowing stain on the horizon. She raised her voice majestically to a note that every heart in the Imperial Guarda could hear.

"Soldiers of the Empire! Children of the Goddess! Darkness and Despair approach. Reject them! By the blood of the Creator, by the blessing of the Goddess, I will not forsake you! I will NEVER forsake you! Each of you who stands with me today is a Knight of Seiros, a Guardian of the Goddess! Though blood may flow, and flesh shall fail, your spirit, my spirit, and the spirit of the Goddess stand tall and eternal! She is the arbiter of every soul, the mother of all creation, and in my judgment, all who are with me now, in this moment, _are...found...worthy_!" A mighty renewed shout answers her call. "We stand together against the Bandit King, the Traitor King, the King of Thieves. Only one man, one mortal man, stands between us and eternal peace for our families! For the Empire!" A roar. "For Fodlan!" Another roar. "For Sothis!"

The final bellow from the Imperial Army shook the clouds of the raining sky, and as one, the Imperial Guarda leans forward into a charge against the hordes of Nemesis.

*

Sothis had indeed watched this battle, for this battle is still a part of her. She sees the charge of the Imperial calvary and pegasi break the front lines of the dark-armored barbarians and renegades, lances snapping as men and mounts scream their death cries. Well-disciplined and well-armed, the Imperials cleave through the horde’s ranks, splitting it with a flying wedge that threatens to break through the loose rear formations of the enemy army, bursting like deadly flower throughout their position. Imperial aerial units throw javelins or loose arrows at will down on hapless, defenseless men, raining death from the skies and dodging only occasional arrow shafts in return. Then the charge is broken in a flash of lava-bright light, the entire forward elements of the Imperial calvary falling apart like unstrung puppets before their cheering foes. Nemesis, the King of Liberation, is single handedly turning the rout with a mere snap of his wrist, a flick of his Sword. A Sword of bone, glowing like a sun, snatches Pegasi down from the sky, or blasts entire companies of soldiers into ash in a swirl of flames. Sothis is the Sword. She is Death. She is Destruction. She is Nemesis, a man unsurpassed in power or cruelty, a man killing an entire army, an entire Empire, by himself.

Sothis is Seiros, rushing to attack the one man she hates beyond all others. Nemesis, the Black King. She charges him with her infantry supporting her , heedless of safety, and they engage, as holy steel and corrupted bone crash, repeatedly, endlessly, while her loyal and faithful followers rush up to fight beside her and whisper her name with their dying voices. Men and women struggle and scream and die, but soon the mere mortals all avoid the Saint and the King as they struggle in their titanic duel, lest they are trampled underfoot carelessly by the mythical figures. The duel seems endless, with neither landing a blow, but then there is the moment the Lady has waited for, as Nemesis unchains his Sword, using it as a tremendous whip that can cleave stone, cut flesh...and _miss_ as Seiros turns aside from the deadly bone links at the last possible moment. Nemesis is daunted, but fights on, trying to slash at Seiros yet again, but the green haired woman blocks his attack now, and wraps the links of the sword-whip, the vertebrae of her mother, onto her blessed blade. Giving a mighty pull of her sword, Seiros disarms Nemesis for the first and last time in his life, and the grey haired King is daunted as the red glowing sword leaves his hands. Seiros abandons her own weapons to rush forward to viciously beat the Black King with her fists and feet. Nemesis, his feral grin beneath his iron beard vanishing under the crunching blows, kicks, and chops of Lady Seiros, the Immaculate One, is battered into the mud, his armor stained with blood, his flesh battered beyond endurance.

The armies pause in their melee, and death struggles are halted, to witness Seiros pin the large man under her thighs, say something, then viciously stab the throat of the fallen King with a dagger. Caught up in her slaughter, the Lady Seiros shreds the old king's corpse apart with her knife until blood and viscera shine bright in the sunshafts through the clouds, her sobs and screams of unadulterated rage silencing the sounds of battle. Sothis lingers over the dead man, curious for a moment, then moves away to witness more.

Sothis sees the Imperial Guarda, or what is left of it, cheering the Lady Seiros as the sun breaks clear through the steel clouds in the sky, the rain finally ceasing. One age has passed and another begins. She lets her eye drift further, and so sees that some of Ten Elites are willing to take the knee before the victorious Empire, with others are spitefully swearing to fight on, regardless of their fates. Upon hearing the news in the Imperial command tent, the beaming Emperor Wilheim, his proud son Prince Lycanon, and the grinning Imperial Chancellor toast to Peace, their dreams of Empire crystallizing for the entirety of the continent-state of Fodlan.

Sothis floats above a dying woman, her mouth moving in a prayer only the Goddess can hear, who covers her bleeding, wounded daughter, while the Goddess listens to the despairing screams her husband as he abandons his wyvern, rushing to the side of his wife and child. Meanwhile, Lord Indech stands guard over some captured and wounded Elites, all with silver arrows from his bow, The Inexhaustible, sticking out from their bodies. The robed form of Lord Macuil hovers in the air in the distance with his arms folded, his bloody guardian swords still spinning in orbit around him, as he grimly regards entire ranks of ash and bone and armor, the results of his powerful magic.

Sothis is the retreating, scattering host of Nemesis, their hearts beating in terror to see their God-King fall as they flee to the north and east, away from the victorious Empire. She is a crushed flower, dead in the red mud of the trampled plain, along with so many others thoughtlessly destroyed this day. She is the silent blue mountains in the distance, witnessing the drama of these small creatures with her. She is three humanoids who stand on a sheltered cliff, who witnessed the battle, and now curse the failure of their plans and their hopes to restore their rightful station. She hears the shadowy figures vow revenge on herself and her daughter, and she wonders to hear such words as the dark ones disappear, teleporting far away from the world above with mighty magic. She is the Sun, giving light and warmth to Seiros who now cradles what remains of her Mother to her blood and tear stained cheek. She is the Sword, desperate to give her daughter reassurance, to tell her she is still here.

Seiros whispers to the Sword, and Sothis hears. "He's dead, Mother. Finally...you are avenged."

Sothis mourns for her daughter, who does not truly understand. She does not know that they will meet again, yet they have never been apart.

And Sothis feels another mourn with her as well, and she is comforted that there is at least someone else who understands this Truth alongside her.

Watching her daughter in the mud, cradling a bloody sword of bone, Sothis hears the Other within her speak.

_Is this how it was?_

"Come now, would I lie to you?" Sothis laughs the tinkling laugh of a little girl. "That would be rather difficult, you know."

_Who are you?_

Sothis tilts her head, considering the question as her braids sway. "I am that which is you. I am that which you were. And I am that which you are becoming."

_A strange answer, yet I feel it is true._

Sothis smiles at the response. "It is good that you trust your feelings, for you will need to rely on them." Sothis regards the now time-frozen tableau before her, with Saint Seiros still kneeling in the mud, the dismembered corpse of Nemesis nearby. "These terrible events never end, you know. Not even I could stop them, even though I knew of them."

_Then perhaps it is better not to know some things._

"Excuse me?" squeals Sothis indignantly. A small heel digs into the ground of the dreamscape beneath her. "I thought it was obvious, but apparently I have to paint you a picture! You WILL have to know what I know, and you WILL have to chin up and bear it!"

_But I am mortal. This knowledge is not for me._

"Are you, and isn't it?" the child-goddess snaps back. The Other within is silent, but Sothis feels it pause, and consider. The Goddess nods to herself, humming an aimless tune as she wills herself to the sky, regarding the dwindling lives, now mere specks, now the ancient dust of history, beneath her. She twirls her vivid green hair as she waits for a response, for she realizes she cannot push too hard, lest the Other retreat away from her and the silence stretch on for years.

As it has happened so many times before.

Finally, an answer. _I...I want to understand. I feel what is happening to you is happening to me. I think I am dreaming, but not dreaming._

"You see?" the child Goddess gives an encouraging smile, dancing in the sky. "It's not a bad thing, acknowledging Truths. Truths can be True simultaneously, you know. Every perspective teaches a lesson; you just have to take the time and effort to Know it. And once it is Known, it is not Forgotten."

Sothis was pleased to feel a flash of insight by the Other. _And that is why you Witness._

Sothis smiles, and her smile and face and being now encompass all. The plain, mountains, and people fade into blackness.

But the Sword, the Sword of Nemesis, the Sword of the Creator, still remains, and glows an angry red, the color of spilled blood.

A small child's laugh, and a whisper, "I could never forget you. Byleth. The Ashen Demon."

_Byleth. I had forgotten. I had forgotten...my name._

"Is it? Is it truly your Name?"

_I am Sothis. I am Byleth._

_I am a Goddess. I am a Demon. I am the demon Byleth. Byleth..._

"BYLETH!" Jeralt called in a reville bellow. Byleth, a junior officer in her father’s mercenary company, snaps awake from her mat, struggling to stand, arm herself, and salute her father at the same time, failing at all three. While most mercenary companies were more casual, Jeralt insisted on a modicum of military discipline in his command. Including his daughter.

Chagrined at being caught asleep during muster, before a mission no less, Byleth sat up quickly from her pallet while scrubbing sleep scummed eyes with the back of her hand. Suddenly, a lumbering scarred figure in an orange tabard and patchwork plate armor was standing before her in the dim light of morning, regarding her plight with amusement.

Jeralt the Blade-Breaker, renowned mercenary of Fodlan, and Byleth's father, dad-smirked down at her with his battle scarred face, clearly enjoying the moment. "Pleasant dreams?" he drawled.

Byleth mentally groaned to herself, and to her shock and surprise thought she heard an echoing childlike whine in the back of her head.

"No sir," she grated, blinking her eyes up at the looming shadow of her father from the ground. "Not in the least."

*

  
  



	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day’s sweetest moments are at dawn;  
> Refreshed by his long sleep, the Light  
> Kisses the languid lips of Night,  
> Ere she can rise and hasten on.  
> All glowing from his dreamless rest  
> He holds her closely to his breast,  
> Warm lip to lip and limb to limb,  
> Until she dies for love of him.
> 
> \-- Ella Wilcox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet some other mercenary officers in Jeralt's company other than just Jeralt and Byleth.

Ch 2.

Morning After

The cocks crowed in the distance, announcing dawn to all within the village of Remire.

Byleth sat near the large fireplace of Remire's nameless inn, her father restlessly pacing nearby. Carlos the innkeep bustled over to the table where the mercenaries were gathered, setting down a generous plate cold cuts of meat and fresh baked bread, along with mugs of small beer. He smiled and made customary greetings, but sensing the mood at the table, apologized and moved away to his chores and more pleasant customers.

Byleth soundlessly watched her father's agitation and brushed back her blue-black hair, and then pushed the plate away from herself. Guessing at his mood, she said "I'm sorry, Dad. I thought it was just a stupid dream. I didn't mean to upset you."

Jeralt stopped his restless agitation and made a visible effort to calm himself. "Not your fault, kid," he sighed gustily, sitting down himself. He reached for a loaf of bread and tore at it. "Hearing you describe such a vivid dream...just brings back old memories, is all."

Byleth nodded, and reached for a bite of meat herself. She didn't feel hungry at the moment but knew she had to make a pretense of eating to reassure her father. Silent for a moment over hiss of the hearthfire and the sounds of animals and people in the village awakening outside, she finally ventured a small query. "Mom--?" she guessed. Her father rarely spoke of her and refused to volunteer information about her to Byleth. Most of what she knew came from the oldest members of the company, passed down second-hand from Jeralt himself after he had been deep into his cups.

Jeralt paused in his meal and regarded his daughter. Eventually he slowly nodded at Byleth's query, and his eyes unfocused before him. "She...had dreams as well, kid. Almost exactly like yours. She would get so caught up in describing them, it was like listening to a story book." He smiled gently in remembrance. "She would ramble on and on, but I'd let it happen, just to hear her voice. She looked so happy to tell someone about her dreams. I guess no one took her seriously before. I almost didn't believe her myself, but to see her face shine like that..." Jeralt quickly swallowed, then continued roughly, "Um, it made me want to believe too."

Byleth ventured a small hard-practiced smile at her father, wanting to lighten his mood from his memories. "Thanks for telling me that, Dad. Although I mainly just told you to make sure I'm not crazy."

Heads turned from the locals as Jeralt laughed at that while the other two officers of their small mercenary band filed into the inn, returning from the duty of mustering the rest of the company. One was a dusky skinned mountain of a man in forest green and brown leather; the other was a pale woman with short blue hair dressed in white and blue robes. The man had a scarred cheek on his left side that made his smile appear demonic. "Someone's cheery this morning," the tall man muttered, sitting next to his commandant.

Jeralt chuckled as he grabbed another piece of jerky. "This kid of mine, Zarad, is messed up. Did you know that?"

"'Course I did. Look who her father is. Nuts and trees, man." A dark gloved hand shamelessly stole food from Jeralt's plate. "And you're eating all of my food."

"That's why we're leaving. Carlos says game has become scarce since a certain Almyran corporal showed up in Remire. Says the children might be next," grunted Jeralt as he chewed.

"Too true. A proper Alymyran meal always includes Fodlan babies."

Byleth looked to the small woman next to her and rolled her eyes without changing expression. "I think these two are still drunk from last night."

"What would you expect from Jeralt the Keg-Breaker?" Trips the company healer smiled sweetly at their leader, before leaning her white birch staff against the wall and taking her own seat. "The only reason we're going on a new commission is to pay for his current tab. Carlos can only brew ale so fast, you know." As Jeralt turned a mock glower in the magician’s direction, she murmured, "Thunder and the other horses are ready, Captain."

Jeralt nodded and stood from the table, wiping away the grease on his hands away on his tabard. "Eat up. We'll start heading north soon. I want to be in Kingdom territory today if possible. I'll make the rounds but I expect all of you to be outside and mounted shortly."

"Yes, Dad," all three of them chimed together in harmony. Jeralt rolled his eyes heavenward as he opened the door to the inn and left, but looked gratified to hear his daughter's small forced laugh in response to Zarad's bellows and Trips' giggles.

The group soon quieted and attacked their morning meal with gusto. "So," Trips glanced at Byleth as they ate. "Anything happen between you two? Captain seemed actually worried this morning."

Byleth shook her head, not looking at the healer. She didn't feel like being mothered and clucked over right now, not before starting a mission. "It's fine. Just stupid dreams again."

Zarad grabbed a small roasted bird and cracked it open. "Just stupid dreams that have happened before." He shared a look with Trips, and made a scowl when Byleth glanced at him.

Byleth stifled a sigh behind a smile and turned away from Zarad to look at the short haired healer. She knew Trips would get the story from Jeralt if she didn't volunteer it, and she might as well get it over with. Nodding to the healer, she said, "I saw what looked like Saint Seiros battling an old man with a red sword. There were massive armies clashing on an open field. It felt like I was there, in the battle. It seemed real."

"I see," Trips replied. She tapped a fingernail to her head as she thought. "Well, it was real, except I think that it happened over a thousand years ago. Sometime during the War of Heroes, when Saint Seiros and King Nemesis fought the dark gods. It's an old story you'd likely hear from the Church...."

"...not that we've been to many Churches ever..." muttered Zarad between bites.

Trips glared at the corporal before resuming her narrative. "As I was saying, from the Church or someone who knows a bit of history. Maybe I told you that story when you were young. Not that you were ever a good student," the older woman huffed.

Byleth ventured a mechanical smile towards Trips. The company healer was the closest thing to a mother she had, being one of the few women in Jeralt's rough band of mercenaries. Byleth had given her the name "Trips” when she was a child, unable to pronounce her real name, and it had stuck due to the enthusiastic approval of the rest of the company. Trips herself was more likely now to respond to her nickname than her given name. "I recall a lot of lectures for skipping lessons for more sword training," she said to the healer.

"You always did want to run around and fight with the boys," Trips agreed, then added, "And girls. Mind you, I wasn't that different myself growing up. But as you get older you learn the value of knowing history and the world around you. It's always changing around us. A mercenary has to know their history to know what they're getting into with the nobility."

Byleth felt herself nod. "That's why my father kept us out of the Tragedy of Duscar," she allowed.

"Exactly," smiled a pleased Trips, breaking another loaf and soaking the ends in her cup. "No matter who was paying what, some idiot young noble up in the Kingdom would have probably taken one look at Zarad and declared he was from Duscar and tried to kill him. Not even considering the fact that the Duscar natives have white hair, not black."

Zarad grinned at Byleth, his exposed teeth gleaming through the dark stubble on his face. "The key word is try. I'd kill him first."

Byleth’s stepmother rolled her eyes, but continued. "And then killing would go on and on, because some other noble idiot would decide that was just proof that we were all secret Duscar spies, and we'd have to fight out way through the entire Holy Kingdom just to get back to Remire." Trips chewed her bread thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "It's just now finally calmed down enough that we feel it's safe to take our first commission from a Kingdom noble in four years. Only took a genocide to finally pay for the Kingdom's debt of honor over the death of King Lambert." She waved over to Carlos for something more to drink. "Of course, it's not just the Kingdom. It's also why we stay out of House Goneril territory in the Leicester Alliance. Most other Leicester Lords are smarter than that, like Lady Judith or Margrave Edmund, but the Lords of Goneril like to offer bounties for Almyran ears occasionally, when they feel they have too many 'spies' about from Fodlan’s Locket. So our commissions among nobles in all three countries are limited, all because of this big dumb lummox," she finished, wagging an accusing finger at Zarad.

Zarad laughed as he stood, collecting his bow and quiver. "All true. The entire misery of the world can be laid at my feet. It is due to my wicked habits and shifty mind." He grabbed one last bite for the road and glanced at Byleth, his face becoming stern and solemn. "Listen to the wisdom of Trips, Byleth. She knows that I'm a bad man because of my sinful, Goddess-cursed skin."

Byleth blinked at Zarad, her expression artfully blank. "How can the Goddess curse you if you don't believe in her existence?"

"Ugh," snarled Zarad in theatrical display of shuddering revulsion. "Philosophy and theology? I hope we do not desecrate the beauty of nature with such topics on our journey." He nodded to both women and quickly left the inn.

Trips and Byleth finished their meal in companionable silence, washing down their food with mugs of small beer. Byleth made to stand and buckle her sword but Trips grasped her arm and said, "No, wait."

Byleth sat down, her earlier discomfort returning. "I'm fine," she said shortly, not wanting to meet the healer’s eyes.

"I'll determine that, thank you. Just sit still and be quiet." Trips closed her eyes and quickly laid her hands on Byleth, resting on various places on her face, throat, and body. Byleth resisted the urge to fidget on the bench as the hair on the back of her neck and head tingled as Trips examined her.

As always, Trips finished her exam by placing both hands over Byleth's heart. Byleth waited, restless. Trips eyes blinked open and she removed her hands.

"Physically, you're the same as you've ever been. But that's not what I'm worried about. What are you feeling right now?" she asked.

Byleth instantly knew better than to be too oblique, or Trips would pester her during the entire march to Castle Gaspard. For some odd reason, Trips had always been extremely interested in this subject. "A little tired. Uneasy, I guess."

Trips nodded to herself. "Aside from the dream, anything else?"

Byleth hesitated for a moment, and Trips used that opportunity to pounce.

"Come on, kid," Trips urged. "I know you're all grown up now but I raised you too, you know. I know you too well for you to be able to hide things from me." She gave an encouraging smile to the strange young woman she had raised from swaddling. "I can't help you unless you tell me what's going on in your thick skull."

Byleth had to give a rehearsed smile at that, but it quickly fled and she said seriously, "I'm just not sure anyone can help me, Trips. I don't want people to be distracted by something they can't control. Or I can't control. It's not like I want these things to happen to me."

"True," granted Trips, "but since we only get one body in life, it's important to take care of it, right? Only your dad and me have to know, kid. Zarad and the others know better to stick their noses too far into your business. And they'll trust us to handle it. But you have to take that first step."

Byleth slowly nodded, then glanced around the busy common room. All of the villagers were focused on their own meals or what passed for village gossip, and Carlos was engaged with an ale keg in the storage room. It was safe as it could be.

"Trips, I--" Byleth paused and swallowed. Somehow, saying this was difficult. She then took the plunge, comforted by Trips’ quiet attentive presence.

"I heard the Goddess, in my dream. Sothis was talking to me."

Trips' calm expression shifted only slightly, with the healer merely reaching out and to hold her hand. "What did you talk about with Sothis, Byleth?"

Despite the common gesture, Byleth felt better as she held her stepmom’s hand, and it gave her the resolve to continue. "She said I was to witness something. I...I don't know what. She said I was Her. That I was becoming Her." Trips did not comment, but still held Byleth's hand, her grey-blue eyes unwavering. Byleth looked away briefly in an attempt to focus. "She made me forget who I was. She made me forget my name. It made me not know what was real or not, and I couldn’t fight her, so I wanted to just run away, and...that's when Dad woke me up."

Trips smiled and patted Byleth's hand. "Thank you for telling me, kid. That certainly does sound terrifying and confusing." She gave a thoughtful pause for a moment as she considered what she learned. "I wouldn't want to be alone to experience something like that. If it ever happens again, just let me know, ok? I might not be able to stop it from happening, but I can make sure you're not alone when it does. I'll be by your side and help you, however I can."

Byleth slowly nodded. She blew out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and felt her muscles relax somewhat. "Thanks, Trips. I guess I do feel better now." They arose and Trips reclaimed her long ornate staff while Byleth checked her own gear and sword.

When they were ready, Trips gently led Byleth to the door. "You can't fool your old 'Trips,' right? Don't try to outsmart me, kid, it always goes badly for you. Remember when you tried to run away from me six years ago?"

Byleth grimaced at the memory. "I just wanted to fight my first battle with Dad. I thought I was ready for it and I could make my way alone to Sauin Village."

Trips gave muffled snort as they walked outside to the muddy streets of Remire. "You made it about two hours away from the village before I caught up with you. I'd been watching you trying to make an artful, sleeping shape with your laundry and bedding for days."

"And then you sucker punched me when I tried to argue with you."

"It convinced you. Although I'm not kidding about your thick skull; my right hand now aches when it rains."

"And that's why I'm hearing voices in my head now. Thanks a lot, Trips. Such a motherly figure."

Trips was laughing at Byleth's deadpan sarcasm just as Zarad came rushing up to them. "There you are. We were about to march, Trips, but Captain wants both of you to meet us at the gate. There's something brewing. Leave the horses in the stables for now."

Byleth and Trips ran back with the corporal, their faces immediately composed and battle-ready. "A fight?" panted Trips as they rushed through the muddy blocks of the village to the gate, dodging agitated animals and startled gawkers.

Zarad grunted as he kicked aside a pig in his path. It squealed in alarm along with its angry owner. He bit off as they ran, "Not sure. Captain was arguing with three brats who just came running out of the woods. Fancy cloaks and weapons. Nobles, by the look of them. A girl and two boys."

Trips groaned in disgust as they hurried up the main village road. "Oh, great. Not just nobles. Young nobles." She looked to the dawning sky as the gate came into view. "And it was such a nice morning, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trips, or Beatrix, is a healer and a mage with a mysterious past, but she had already set herself up as a wisewoman on the edges of Garreg Mach when in her twenties. Concerned for a heartless infant and her inebriated father, she followed Jeralt into mercenary life to help raise his child. In short order she became a healer for Jeralt's Mercenaries and a stepmother to Byleth.
> 
> Likes-Magic, history, healing, her patients, refinement  
> Dislikes-Ignorance, uncurbable diseases, classism
> 
> Zarad is renegade from Almyra, and the Corporal for Jeralt's Mercenaries. A large man bearing numerous scars, he is surprisingly light on his feet and loves the forested hills of Fodlan much more than his native land. Only his Captain and himself know the reason for why he has left his homeland, and now he lives amongst people who hate him, who he equally hates in return, freely disdaining their ridiculous religion.
> 
> Likes-Nature, family, payment, drinking, realism  
> Dislikes-The Goddess, persecution, overthinking, idealism


	3. First Impressions and Last Expressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How wonderful is Death, Death, and his brother Sleep!  
> One, pale as yonder waning moon With lips of lurid blue;  
> The other, rosy as the morn  
> When throned on ocean’s wave It blushes o’er the world;  
> Yet both so passing wonderful!
> 
> \--Shelly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there might be another OC here. Sorry.

ch 3.

First Impressions, Last Expressions

Trips slipped through the gate as it opened, passing by a befuddled gate watchman. "What's going on?" she snapped as Byleth slipped outside with her.

The overwhelmed guard in patchwork chain armor shook his head at the healer. He was used to dealing with mischievous children, demanding merchants, and horse thieves, not three exhausted but important looking noble children. The clothing and armor they wore could feed his entire farm for a year, let alone the weapons they carried. "Not sure, ma'am, but they look to be quite important-like, if you catch me drift," he stammered to her face.

Trips wrinkled her nose. "I think I just did. If it's alright with you and your mayor, our company can handle it from here."

"Much obliged, missus healer," smiled the watchman with his brown teeth, and he turned to bark to a nearby gawking stableboy to run and get Mayor Millson.

Byleth waited behind Trips as the older woman took a moment to square her shoulders and seemed to assume a pose. She used the time to quickly assess the source of the commotion. One tall blonde man dressed in a blue and black uniform with assorted pieces of armor appeared to be the spokesman for the group, earnestly speaking to her father. The other two of the group hung back behind the tall youth, one being a pale girl whose small size made her age difficult to guess from a distance, and another young man of medium build with a bow and quiver slung to his back. Trips nudged her from her observations and glanced at her. "Let's get this over with." Byleth nodded as they moved to join the conversation between the three nobles and her Father and Zarad.

"--and that is why it is most urgent that you help us. I swear to you on my life that what we say is true. We need immediate sanctuary, although I fear it may only doom this village as well," said the young man in blue, leaning on a long spear taller than him. Byleth guessed he was only a few years younger than she, but despite his tall frame he still had the earnest quality of a youth in training.

"It is indeed a sizable force. I fear this may be a targeted attack because of who we are," said the stately young woman, poised as a statue even though her white hair was askew and sweat dripped from her brow. Her marble skin only heightened the impression. She had vivid purple eyes and was dressed red-black leather armor, complete with a red cape.

"Heh, yeah, it was a good chase but they've dogged us for the entire evening and night," smiled the dark haired young man in a yellow and black uniform, his skin the color of lightly stained wood. He let out a dramatic wheeze and rubbed his legs. "I know a few tricks for losing someone on your trail, but a night chase like that through an unknown forest is not something I can pull off again. And they've definitely got magical assistance, because they kept finding us over and over without them even bothering to spread out and search." His green eyes flicked occasionally to Zarad, who stared impassively back at the youth.

Jeralt turned to the dark-skinned youth. "You're certain of your count? And that they have magic?"

"Oh yeah," he nodded easily. "There's at least a company of them. Dunno how many mages, because you know how mages can be. Teleportation and stuff. Or floating on the winds."

"How remarkably informed you are," mentioned the pale teenage girl in red and black. "It appears you paid attention in some of your classes."

"Don't worry, Princess, I know how to read," assured the young man in the yellow half-cape. "Although maybe you could give me remedial lessons?" he joked with a wink.

"And the ass brays yet again," snapped the young woman.

"Enough of this nonsense!" growled the taller youth, his temper briefly getting the better of him. His face twisted for a moment, then visibly relaxed with an effort, along with his voice. "We must remain in control of ourselves. After all, we may soon be fighting for our lives."

"Well said, Your Highness," said Trips smoothly, flowing like a dancer in front of Jeralt. Without a word, he stepped back and signaled to Zarad. The two men began talking privately in low voices behind Byleth. "Please, allow us to introduce ourselves. My name is Beatrix, the healer and mage of Captain Jeralt's company." She gave a small bow from the waist to the tall blonde youth.

"Jeralt the Blade-Breaker? Former Knight of Seiros..." interrupted the young woman, her eyes wide in shock. Byleth looked back at her father with surprise to see his back to her as he watched Zarad run to the treeline, unslinging his bow as he did so. The Captain hadn't heard the comment, but Byleth felt her mouth hanging open slightly at the revelation. Her father had been a Knight of Seiros?

Trips stiffly addressed the question but kept her attention on the tall young man. She resisted the urge to look at Byleth. "Yes, I know he doesn't look the part, with chicken grease on his tabard and ale on his breath, but that is the legendary Jeralt the Blade-Breaker. I assure you he is worthy of his reputation, Lady--"

"Edelgard," supplied the albino woman. She recovered her poise sharply and bowed shortly to Trips. "I am Edelgard von Hresvelg, the sole living heir of Emperor Ionius IX."

"I am very pleased to meet you, your Imperial Highness," answered Trips, bowing deeply. "I recognized Prince Dimitri of House Blayddid at once, of course, although he has grown considerably taller."

The man called Prince Dimitri bowed formally in return to Trips. "I am pleased to be so memorable, Lady Beatrix, but I must confess that I do not recall having met you."

Trips gave a tinkling little laugh. "I would be afraid for you if you did, your Highness. And please, let us be informal. I am no Lady. I simply recognized you because you resemble your father so much." Trips bowed again, more slowly to the blonde young man. "Many of us grieved that day when he was lost, Your Highness. Even those of us here in the Empire."

Terrible hurt, swiftly masked, passed across the chiseled face of Prince Dimitri. "I can but hope to live up to his example," he said shortly in a tight voice.

Trips turned her attention to the third figure of the trio. As she did so, he blurted, "Oh, great! Is it my turn? Ok. I've been aching to try this. All right. Here I go," he coughed shortly, then drew himself up in a haughty, pompous pose, and announced in a dramatic baritone, "I am Claude von Riegan, sole living heir to the Dukedom of House Riegan, Leader of the Leicest-ah-ha-ha-ha-ha," the dark haired youth ended with a burst of laughter. "Oh man, I can't do it! I just start laughing! Oh, my sides," he gasped.

Trips gave a charming smile at his display and bowed informally. "Claude von Riegan, is it? How curious. I have never even heard of you." Her lips shifted into a small moue. "And here I thought I was familiar with most of the nobility of Fodlan. You have me caught me off guard, my Lord Duke. I must get to know you better."

Claude gave her a familiar wink. "Miss Beatrix, you may know all about me, as soon as I know all about the young lady who is standing behind you."

Byleth felt herself tense as the young coterie of nobles directed their attention towards her. "I am Byleth, daughter of Jeralt," she stated flatly.

"The daughter of the legendary Blade-Breaker? Wow! I hope you're as strong as your father, who I hope is really really strong, since we still have about a hundred enemies ready to attack us and all," exclaimed Claude. He paused as he regarded the strange stares directed at him. "What? I mean, she should be, right? And they are, aren't they?"

Dimitri let out a slow breath and said apologetically to Byleth, "Please excuse our fellow noble's rudeness. He has much to learn about propriety."

"Indeed," said a smirking Edelgard, "he has much to learn about Fodlan itself."

"And that is a marvelous discussion to have inside the village, where it is safest for three noble children under attack from mysterious assailants," chirped Trips brightly, moving to usher the three nobles inside the village. Eloquent and verbose protests were immediately issued, as each youth argued that they were Candidate Officers of Garreg Mach Monastery, and they could fight, and that they had already fought and killed people. "And each of you are the heir to an ancient and noble line," countered a smiling Trips. "Which is more important? Exposing yourself to assassination while you are exhausted, or preserving your lives and royal lineages? And don't give me any nonsense about Crests and what they can do. I've never heard of any Crest that can cure death..." With remarkable efficiency, Trips bustled the three still-protesting young nobles past the gawking villagers, inside the gates and walls of the village.

Byleth turned to face her father, who was regarding the treeline to the northeast. She hoped Zarad was doing his best to stay alive while he risked his life to give them the time to plan.

She moved to stand by him, following his gaze into the rising sun as it peeked over the mountains in the east. "That dust cloud?" she pointed toward a patch of wood in the northeast, noticing a slight haze in the air.

"Yeah," said her father in a clipped tone. "Zarad should slow them down a little bit, but if they've got mages leading them, not by much. Not by himself. He'll fall back into cover as needed."

Byleth nodded. "Do we meet them?" she asked, eyes straining for movement in the wood. Aside from the small rising dust cloud, she could see little that seemed threatening. But she noted an absence of bird songs that would normally call out to greet the dawn. That in itself was ominous. They had only minutes.

Her father grunted. "That's what I'm trying to decide. If they were just a company of bandits, I'd say we could just pick them off from the gates of the village until they gave up. But any single mage worth spit could mess up Remire good. They could fire the village, poison the water and animals, or change the weather..." Jeralt's voice trailed off.

Byleth looked back to the village, hearing an iron clanking bell ringing repeatedly, calling the village militia to muster. Cries of panic conflicted with shouts for order behind the brick walls of the village proper. "Looks like the debate's settled. Someone in the village must have heard the news from their Royal Highnesses."

Her father spat on the ground. "That's the other thing bothering me. Three nobles, all heirs to practically every throne in Fodlan, shouldn't just randomly show up in a horse and cattle village, covered in mud with no escort from Garreg Mach. Not even a single retainer or Knight of Seiros with them. Pretty coincidental..."

"...and coincidence takes a lot of planning," Byleth finished the thought. "Speaking of the Knights of Seiros..."

"What about them? If any of them were worth their swords they should be nearby already," Jeralt muttered viciously.

Byleth glanced at her father. "Were you one of them?"

Jeralt looked at her sharply, surprise on his scarred face. "Where did you hear that?"

"The Imperial princess. She said you were a former Captain of the Knights," Byleth said, regarding her father evenly.

Her father looked away and Byleth saw he was angry, but not at her. "Yeah," rasped Jeralt. "I was." He glanced at the considerably larger dust cloud, now growing closer in the woods. "I'll tell you about it when we get through this, ok? Right now we have a battle on our hands."

Byleth nodded and looked to the south. "Can we get a rider to Varley territory? Or Garreg Mach itself?"

"They'd probably return here in time to have a state funeral," said her father. "Varley's castle an open run across the plains and takes almost the whole day at a canter, and Garreg Mach is high enough in the mountains that any rider has to slow down too much or risk his mount."

"Trips could probably help," Byleth said slowly as they started to move back to the gate. Byleth had not seen everything of what her adoptive mother could do, but she had seen enough, and had heard plenty of other tales from the rest of the company.

"She probably could, but then again she could probably get herself killed, too," answered Jeralt. "Trips can't protect herself and take out an unknown cabal of mages at the same time, along with a hundred bandits trying to target her. Let's get back inside the village and hope that we can keep them from killing our noble guests."

Byleth rocked back a step at her father’s words, lost in thought for an instant. Jeralt looked back at her quizzically, to see his daughter quickly scan the treeline, scan the fields south of the village, and scan the walls of the village. "It could work," she mumbled.

"Let's hear it, kid," said Jeralt shortly.

"Let's get Trips and the horses. I just remembered something you told me about mages," Byleth told her father as they entered through the gate. Militiamen of the village rushed forward to bar it shut as they passed.

"I've said a lot of things over the years. You're going to have to help your old man out."

Byleth turned her blank face to her father, but there was an excited glimmer in her eyes. "Where do mages like to fight?"

Jeralt paused for a moment, then caught up with his daughter. "Right. At the rear," he said, grinning at his devious spawn, visibly pleased.

"Right. Let's inform 'Lady Beatrix' and their Royal Highnesses of our plan," said Byleth.

*

Kostas, the bandit leader, stared at the three noble brats with pouched eyes from the shade of the trees. His men all crouched nearby, some still angrily muttering or checking their weapons and armor in obvious agitation. Many over them glanced nervously above and behind them.

"Well?" he snarled at the masked man in dark robes next to him. "That's them, standing at the top of the gate of that pigfucking village. You blow the gate open, we kill everyone, we grab the girl."

"She is too close to them to risk an evocation. She is more valuable to our cause alive than dead," came the muffled voice. The black robed magician in mirrored goggles and a physicians' plague mask stood unnaturally still as he considered the village, staring at the three noble children perched on the gate wall where they were clearly visible.

"Bah!" spat Kostas after too many heartbeats had passed for his limited patience. "I'll tell you, my boys and me are pretty pissed. We might just take out our losses on her noble cunt. I've lost me four good fighting men just now to some asshole archer."

"The princess is to remain alive, and unspoiled." The plague bird mask swiveled to face Kostas. "Or you do not get to keep the remainder of your pay. Or your lives. Control your men, bandit, or I will control them for you."

Kostas' ugly face contorted in rage, and he might have attacked the magician despite the risk when one of his men called out "Boss, look!"

The bandit leader turned his back to see where his man was pointing. Riders were galloping south across farmland, cutting through planted fields and grazing land alike on their way south. Kostas counted only two and grunted, "Well it looks like some of the pig people got sense. They're headed south to Varley land. They know what's coming when Kostas' crew rolls into town."

Some of the bandits glanced at each other, and one said "They might be getting help, Boss."

"From where? Sheep boys and farmhands? Don't make me laugh," countered Kostas. "There's nothing that way for miles. This village will be a smoking ruin by the time they get back." He turned his back on his men and stomped back to face the weird mage again.

"I have decided our tactics," declared the masked man. He pointed. "The nobles and villagers make their stand at the gate, where they expect us to attack. Instead, I will cause an explosion there," he said, shifting a black gloved hand to a mudbrick wall to the right of the gate. "That should allow you and your men a point of ingress. While you are doing that, I will set fire to the rest of the village. That should cause enough chaos to allow us to complete our mission. But leave the princess for me."

"Got it," sneered Kostas, his good humor returning. The loss of Jaccen and some of his other lads was about to be avenged against that cowardly hunter's village. The outlaw company had been ambushed in the forest outside the village, the attacking arrows sending all diving for cover behind trees and logs. The masked mage had forced the band to move onwards to their objective instead of being delayed by such an obvious ploy. A quickly muttered spell by the dark mage had caused the arrows to cease, which had impressed Kostas because he could not even see the archer, but the loss of any one in his band of thieves made him angry at the work of having to find replacements.

Kostas reminded himself that he wouldn't need replacements, not if this scheme paid off. He could retire and grow old with some comely wench and sire some more brats. He turned to his crew and raised his voice to a grinning shout. "We're about to spill some noble blood, lads! Let's make some music to make them piss their fine fancy armor!" An enthusiastic, cackling call rose up from his men, as they stood forth from the trees to make obscene gestures at the figures in the village or to bang weapons on shields. The mage stood apart, gesturing and muttering in some arcane ritual, ignoring the clamor around him as he concentrated.

The bandits' shouts turned wilder as the mage in black raised his hands, pointing them at an angle upwards. A brightly glowing, sparking ball of intense heat was rapidly growing and expanding in a space between the mages' hands, and the mage shouted in a foreign tongue a barking word of command. The ball launched itself high into the air, expanding even more as it did so, to gracefully end its arc at the base of the village wall dozens of yards from the gate. It detonated with concussive force as it impacted, launching men and clay and stone high in the air, and created a large cloud of smoke and dust. Voices inside the village wailed in dismay.

The black-robed mage lowered his hands and nodded once to Kostas. Kostas laughed and called the charge, and he and his men ran at full speed to the breach in the wall in a berzerk frenzy.

*

Byleth was on the stairs to the gate wall, beyond sight of the bandits, ready to usher the young royal officer cadets to their assigned positions once the bandits committed to a charge. Eventually their protests to be included in the fighting had exasperated Trips to the point that she had surrendered on the issue, provided that the noble cadets obeyed any and all orders from the Captain, Byleth or her instantly. They all had enthusiastically agreed.

After talking with the three nobles, Trips had hurriedly consulted with Jeralt and Byleth, agreeing that she and Jeralt were the only ones in the company who had any hope of countering the magicians. Trips also had agreed that something about this situation seemed contrived. “I’m not certain I have the full story from them, Captain, but apparently they were on some training mission when these bandits attacked. The Duke kid is probably right that there’s someone using magic, because how else were they followed directly here to Remire? But if there was a mage or mages targeting these kids, they could have just ambushed them directly and smoked them right then and there.” Trips had looked back to the three nobles, being guarded by a squad from the company. All three had been gazing back at her frankly, and she turned and had told Jeralt and Byleth seriously, “Jeralt, I can’t be certain, but this feels more like a kidnapping plot. Any three of them would be invaluable to ransom.”

That has caused Jeralt and Byleth then came up with the idea to display the young nobles at the gate wall as bait for the bandits, but then move them to relatively safe positions where they could contribute to any fighting without them being individually targeted and swarmed. Claude and Dimitri had readily agreed, but the young Imperial Princess had started to protest and argue once again, until Trips had sweetly offered to dress her in peasant clothes and hide her in a locked root cellar if she was unable to follow orders on the field. The furiously blushing girl then silently moved to her appointed position without another word, but had glared daggers at Trips' back as she and Jeralt rode out the south gate.

Byleth now looked at the young woman in red and black, who was the closest noble to her on the rough wooden planks above the town gate. The one called Prince Dimitri was in the center, his face composed but his eyes betraying his excitement as he tightly gripped his long spear in his gloved hands. The dark haired youth with the half braid framing his face, named Claude, was lounging on the mud brick wall next to him. He was slowly stretching his arms and flexing his fingers, his bow still slung over his shoulder. Only the girl who was the Imperial Princess of Adrestia stood without any visible motion or emotion, her pale gloved hand loosely holding a wicked-looking half-axe. Byleth felt she had to say something to the girl while they watched the woods for signs of the bandits, as the tension around them became thick with fear and excitement as armed men raced about below them.

"Hey," she called out to the Princess, then immediately regretted the thoughtless address. Edelgard deigned her with a glance.

Byleth felt her thinking grow muddled at the royal attention. She managed to get out, "It's just...I remember my first battle too." Byleth paused, at a loss for words before Edelgard's stoicism. She wondered if people saw herself in the same way.

The Imperial Princess slowly arched a pale white eyebrow, the rest of her face passive.

Bylteth stared in wonder at her social better, her original thoughts crashing like a cart into a ditch. "How did you do-?"

The eyebrow, impossibly, rose even higher on the royal brow.

Byleth grew flustered and looked away as she realized she was being played with by this stranger. She ground out the words, "So...I guess it's not your first battle."

Princess Edelgard looked away from her, back to the woods. "No," she said. A pause, and then an imperious comment, tinged with finality. "I killed my first man when I was thirteen," she said dismissively.

Byleth thought about that, then gave a small snort. "Lucky," she said.

Edelgard's head turned slightly. "Lucky," she echoed. Then her curiosity got the better of her. "How so?"

Byleth turned her perfectly composed face to gaze at Edelgard's. "I'm jealous. I didn't get to kill my first man until I was seventeen. And I'm the daughter of Jeralt the Blade-Breaker." She looked down at the stairs and muttered, "You're making me look bad, your Imperial Highness."

Byleth was gratified to hear a non-Imperial cough of laughter. This caught the attention of the noble named Claude, who called out, "Well, well, look at you, your Princessness, making friends already. There's hope for you yet."

Byleth saw Edelgard's face swiftly compose itself back into a porcelain mask as the moment passed. "Your crudeness knows no bounds, Claude. One would think you were hardly a noble," Edelgard responded, not looking at her fellow cadet.

"Quiet, all of you," commanded Dimitri in a regal voice. "They have noticed our riders, and you might spoil Lady Byleth's plan with your noise."

Byleth flushed at the formal address, and busied herself with checking her steel arm guards and loosening the sword in her scabbard, while muttering under her breath, "I'm NOT a LADY." Only Edelgard heard, and she smiled again briefly.

Then they heard the bandits roar and shout vulgarities. Byleth saw Edelgard and Dimitri tense up, while Claude maintained his relaxed pose as if one hundred voices weren't demanding his blood.

"It's time," Byleth said quickly, standing on the stairs. "If they target the gate, jump to the hay pile below and run. But Trips doesn't think they will and I trust her judgement. Everyone knows where to go?"

Claude and Dimitri both nodded to her. Edelgard gravely regarded her and said, "You have a strange aura about you..."

Byleth impatiently grabbed a royal hand. "We can share palm readings after we're done, Your Imperial Highness. Please get into position and...luck in battle." She released the royal wrist and turned and ran down the stairs and through the streets, giving commands by whisper to her fellow mercenaries.

*

Edelgard was so bemused that she didn't move until both Dimitri and Claude were far past her, barely noting the explosion on Remire’s walls and the screams of the commoners. If her fellow nobles had made any comments her ears had not registered them.

She moved mechanically through the streets, absently noting wailing peasants in her wake and grim mercenaries hiding themselves expertly on rooftops, behind barrels, below carts. That mercenary girl, Byleth. No one had treated her with such familiarity in such a long time, and she couldn't recall much of her childhood before...what happened.

She remembered her uncle telling her it was for a good cause.

And it _was_ for a good cause. All of it. To succeed, the decrepit Church and corrupt nobility of Fodlan must die. She was the only one who could bear this burden, and in the end, save the Empire.

Even if it included killing Byleth, the daughter of Jeralt the Blade-Breaker, former Knight of Seiros. Byleth the mercenary, who had tried to show her kindness before a battle. A battle that had been organized and arranged by Edelgard herself.

The Imperial Princess took her position behind a village cart, next to a pile of hatchets. She focused on her dreams for Fodlan. And tried to ignore the possible cost.

*

Nessas observed the battle unfold from behind his mask, keeping note of Princess Edelgard's position as he rested to let his will and spirit recover from his recent magical exertion. She had moved from the village gate with the other noble children out of sight when the battle was joined at the breach he had created, but he trusted her to know her part. She would merely defend herself or participate slightly in the melee, letting the other nobles or villagers take the brunt of attacks. Perhaps she could even have the opportunity to kill one of the targets herself in confusion. Thales and Solon had faith in this tool, and that was good enough for Nessas. The Central Church would be blamed for its negligence in the deaths of Prince Dimitri and Duke Riegan's new heir, and the "monastery" of Garreg Mach, the lair of that filthy usurping beast, would be further politically isolated and weakened. Fodlan would erupt into panic and chaos, paving the way for the salvation of the true heirs of humanity. All that would remain would be finding the Sword for their tool to wield, as well as the bones of the other so-called ‘Children of the Goddess.’

The battle seemed to be going well, with the bandits quickly rushing into the village through the breach he made. Only a few peasant archers were left on the wall to bother shooting arrows at the outlaws, before their courage failed them, and they fled. The bandit mob--expendable fools that they were--appeared to be encountering little resistance. 

It was time to burn the rest of the filthy hovels in this village. Nessas considered where his aim should fall, then saw the town granary further in the distance. Yes, that would do nicely.

Nessas raised his shaking hands--

Wait. His hands were shaking? What could be--?

The magician whirled about to see a man and woman on horseback charging at him through the trees, close, far too close! His mask had muffled his senses, he realized in terror, gracelessly backpedalling to give himself time to summon a killing spell at the lead rider, a grim grey haired man in dented armor and an orange tabard. The man lowered a lance in his direction but Nessas could kill him before the horse came near--

\--and Nessas concentrated with all of the power of his glorious race, and gasped as he managed to create and _push_ pure vacuum energy at the man, which would kill his horse, and he would fall, breaking his neck like the deranged animal he was--

\--and the blue haired woman in blue and white, on a bay horse behind him, raised her staff and shouted at the same moment--

\--and Nessas screamed in primal terror behind his mask as his magic was _cancelled,_ the killing energies harmlessly absorbed against a white shimmering shield in the air before the rider. He turned to run away, the stink of horseflesh overwhelming him, but then the lance flashed in the sun and he arched his back, too agonized to scream, as it punched through his skin and inside his body, the unyielding wood and steel pushing aside the bone and blood to erupt from the inside of his chest, and he refused to believe this was happening as illogical, reality-sundering pain overwhelmed him--

\--because it didn't happen. He was just resting, and it would not do to move from the ground until he was ready. He would just close his eyes and rest until the pain went away, and just roll onto his side...

*

Jeralt tossed the lance aside as he reined in his mount, the black robed mage's body slithering on the ground to meet its new equilibrium with a lever in it. He drew his sword while laying a calming hand on the neck of his mount, Thunder, as the war stallion grew excited and restless at the scent of blood. "Was that the only one?" he inquired.

Trips nodded convulsively, her hands grasping both her reins and the staff on her knees as she bent low to gasp for air, almost exhausted. She had barely managed to negate whatever that dark energy had been. "I think so...whoever he was, he...he was a big fish. That attack he cast could have taken out you and me both, if not for my spellshield."

Jeralt's muscles bunched up in the jaw behind his short beard. "Zarad?" he asked shortly.

"Hold on, and I'll focus..." she replied, raising a trembling hand. Her mount turned beneath her as her attention wavered, lost in a spell of localization. Sounds of combat soon erupted from within the town, and Jeralt muted his impatience as he waited. Trips' eyes suddenly opened and she grabbed her reins more firmly to control her own horse, securing her staff in a saddle holster. Her voice became more clear as her energy returned. "He's alive, but it looks like he caught some of it from our dead friend here. I'll tend to him while you help the others."

"Got it," he rasped, pulling on his reins, wheeling Thunder to fall on the bandits' rear through the breach in the wall. Trips turned her own mount to enter the forest and look for their friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, either the bandit attack at the start of the game has to make sense or it doesn't.
> 
> So, I gave it some teeth with an Agarthan mage. The attempt is hard to make sense of, but I've tried to hammer out a reason.


	4. The Divine Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The power flows in
> 
> I kept it naught yet my pride
> 
> Made me make a choice.
> 
> \--
> 
> Byleth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consider each of the royal nobles reaction to the bandit attack.
> 
> And also, what it might mean to have a God in your head.

Ch4

The Divine Plan

The bandits hooted and whooped as they charged through the gap in the clay wall, which had been the outer facing wall of the town smithy. They blinked their eyes and coughed at the smoke and dust, which obscured all vision for a time, then entered through the smithy doors to the village streets, eyes seeking victims. They saw a pitiful assemblage of farmers with pitchforks and small game bows at the end of the lane in the village square, but their orders were to take out the noble brats. Men rushed up crude ladders and rough uneven stairs to the top of the town gate and mudbrick walls, but found no one.

The bandits began muttering as they gathered to regard the pale faced villagers assembled in the town square. Kostas, his blood up, pushed his own men aside as he bellowed, "Where are they, you Goddess-humping faggots?

Mayor Millson sweated with fear at the forefront of his people, but he forced his voice to firmness even as his jowls shook. "Come and get them, you motherless dogs."

While not the most imaginative insult, it had an immediate effect on Kostas and his men.

Kostas laughed, a nasty hollow sound. "At them, boys! Give no quarter! Let's burn this village to the ground, and crucify that old man first!"

The bandits roared as they leaned into a charge at the villagers...

...that was instantly checked by arrows and spears and hatchets from rooftops, windows, and doors. The bandits were met with a counterattack from Jeralt's Mercenaries, who leapt from various hiding places behind walls, between alleys, and under hay piles, to engage the bandits from all sides.

Byleth was behind Duncan, a young fellow mercenary, when he engaged the first bandit with his spear. As he clinched with his foe in a locked parry, Byleth lunged over his shoulder with her sword and pierced the bandit's eye. She disengaged quickly before the corpse could sag, and her senses alerted her to another bandit behind her, his face snarling as he tried for her with his axe. Byleth twisted towards him, the axe blade falling harmlessly past her cloak as she pulled hard on the handle, skewering the man’s belly onto her exposed sword. She shoved the dying man aside to seek more to kill with her fellow mercenaries, her face a blank mask that promised only death.

*

Claude laughed as he targeted bandits freely from his perch on the town hall roof. He had extra quivers, his bow felt good in his hands, and he and his fellow archers had a clean killing field to target without the risk of hitting an ally. He felt gratified that the merc's daughter, Byleth, had trusted him with such an important assignment. Finally, he thought between killing men, someone who recognizes and trusts what I can do without bothering to question how I look.

He peered around briefly at the scrum-like melee in between draws and caught a glimpse of dark-blue hair. For a moment he could only watch, seeing the young woman killing men twice her age with a casual and brutal efficiency that troubled him, a fighter from a culture of fighters. "There's a story there, isn't there," he muttered to himself, as he drew a bead on another bandit torso.

*

Dimitri threw his assigned lot of motley javelins, roasting spits, pitchforks and farming tools at passing bandits from his appointed window inside the village tannery, which was across from the smithy. He regretted the fact that the pitchforks and hoes tended to drift and skewer or break arms and legs, rather than the torsos of the bandits. He may be a killer, but he still didn't like to cause needless suffering. His supply of throwing objects was soon gone and he waited with his familiar lance for his moment to kill more, excited yet soothed by the purity of combat. Life and death situations were what made him feel the most comfortable these days.

A knot of five bandits, overwhelmed and seeking shelter, burst through the barred door of the tannery, their panic showing clearly as they gasped and peered around with sun-bright eyes.

One yelped as he recognized Dimitri coiled in the shadow of the room. "'Oy, Alec! That's one of them!"

"Then let's collect this bounty, Keltos!" yelled the young man who was Alec. He shifted his sword toward the direction of Dimitri. "It's just a noble brat! They don't know how to fight, Crest or no Crest!" The others shouted in approval, fanning out to surround the youth in the corner, weapons raised to attack.

Dimitri smiled.

*

Byleth saw the bandit in front of her scream and stumble as an arrow shaft pierced his collarbone. She quickly lunged with her sword, her arm jolting as the point skidded through armor and bone, finally striking vitals. The bandit fell suddenly and Byleth cleared her weapon as fast as she could, looking around quickly, but it looked as if the company was doing well, surrounding and cornering the remaining bandits with now-superior numbers. She raised her bloody sword to the yellow-caped figure on the roof, who returned a jaunty salute as he scanned the village for more targets.

It was time to check on the other nobles. She thought Prince Dimitri should be closest, as she tried to breathe and get oriented in the tingly aftermath of combat. Not sheathing her sword, she moved, on guard, around the corner to the tanner's shack where the Prince had taken position. Hearing muffled cries and deep, vibrating thumps, she picked up her pace...

...and gasped with pain and shock as a bandit's body exploded through the stout lumber wall, smashing across her sword and forearm with stunning force. Byleth dropped to her knees.

The body was barely recognizable as human, it was so battered and twisted. Even as Byleth tried to recover from a sense of wrongness at looking at the once living _thing_ , she stumbled to her feet, her swollen arm aching as she collected her sword. Her fingers on her right hand had trouble gripping the handle with the blade, so she clumsily shifted her weapon to her left hand. Peering inside the broken wall, Byleth could see Prince Dimitri, blood splattered, standing stock still in the middle of the barrel filled shack, trembling and gasping with dripping fingers. Two bandits, both impaled from the Prince's lance, hung on the far wall like butchered carcasses. The other two were scattered on the floor; legs, torsos, and arms were tossed into corners. They had been plucked apart like dolls. Byleth started for a long moment at the remains, before asking in a low voice, "Prince Dimitri?"

The Prince snapped up his head at her voice, a wild look in his eyes, before he closed them as he took in one more deep, shuddering breath. When he opened them, the blue orbs were once again calm and regal. "Lady Byleth. I am sorry for you to see me in such a state," said the blood covered Prince.

Byleth shook her head. "It's fine. It's battle, Your Highness. It affects us all differently." She looked around at the carnage once more, her brain wanting the reject the reality of affecting the courtly manners Trips had repeatedly taught her in the middle of an abattoir. "I was worried about your safety, thought perhaps I should worry more about my own." She held her right arm against her body, feeling it throb.

Prince Dimitri belatedly took note of her state. "Lady Byleth! You are injured! Please, allow me to assist--" he protested, raising gory hands.

"I may be hurt, Prince Dimitri, but I can finish this with my company. Please stay here," said Byleth, tightening the unfamiliar grip of her sword in her left hand. Seeing the imminent burst of chivalry forthcoming from the tall youth , Byleth added what Trips had told her to say in case this happened. "It is your duty." 

Prince Dimitri strangely both tensed and deflated at those words. Finally, a royal mumble, "Yes, I suppose it is."

Byleth nodded and said quickly, "I will check on the Imperial Princess and return shortly." She hastened back outside. A questioning shout called to her, and she raised her voice in reassurance. She lithely moved to where Edelgard's position had been assigned, her wounded arm not slowing her.

Dimitri's eyes glinted in the dim light and the foul reek, and for moment all was still except the rapid drips of bodily fluids. Then the Prince moved. Turning lightly on his feet, ignoring what squelched and cracked beneath his boots, he yanked his lance from the wall with a single, sharp tug, and gave it an impatient shake. The impaled bodies tumbled to the floor.

Dimitri stalked out into the morning light. He listened to only one voice when it came to _duty._ And it was not Lady Byleth's.

*

Edelgard held back in her place behind a farmer's cart, her fury growing by the second as the bandits, clearly outmatched by the mercenaries’ ambush, screamed and died. The rough voices of the bandits rose even higher into wails and shrieks when Dimitri fully entered the battle. The chance to kill him or Claude had passed, when even one of their deaths could have easily been blamed on the Central Church's negligence. Her plan was fizzling as disastrously as a misfired spell, she raged to herself. This ruined weeks of preparation and planning by Hubert and her Lord Uncle, altering timetables and campaign schedules like dominoes. How could she have guessed that a company of mercenaries, led by a legendary former Knight of Seiros, had made this village his base? With the aid of her rivals and the villagers, these well-trained mercenaries were proving more than a match for her carefully selected catspaws, and aside from the single spell to blow down Remire's wall, there had been no further magical support from Nessas. It was time to cut bait and protect her cover as a student.

Edelgard arose in a fluid, elegant motion from behind the farmer's cart, and began throwing her assortment of collected hatchets at the fools that had failed her unknowingly. Her contributions only hastened the victory, which was now beyond doubt.

Between throws, Edelgard pondered the fate of Nessas, who had been sent as insurance in case Dimitri and Claude proved superior to her skill. Perhaps he was dead as well, she gleefully thought as she threw away her half-axe, wounding a fleeing bandit that was soon brought down by a collection of villagers and killed. That was a slightly encouraging upside to this debacle.

"YOU," growled a threatening voice behind her.

Edelgard whirled to see a bloody Kostas facing her, blocking her in the muddy alley. Stupid, stupid, she thought, as she drew her old sentimental dagger from its sheath. No bandits were supposed to be able to get here, and she was blocked by the village walls and the cart behind her.

"This is it for me and my boys," grated Kostas, looking up and hearing the sounds of combat and screams become more intermittent, fading like slowing music. He returned his mean gaze to Edelgard. "That asshole mage didn't help for shit. So I'm going to get back at him...by raping and killing you, you Imperial bitch," Kostas grated, his eyes wide with fear and hate. He was a desperate man, a cruel man. Edelgard tried to speak and explain herself, to tell this man this man who she _was_ , that she was the one who had contacted and _hired him_ , but her throat was dry with fear.

This can't be happening, screamed Edelgard mentally, as Kostas lunged forward into a charge, his heavy steel axe rising high in a blow she couldn't possibly block with her dagger while her back against the cart.

Then a blue cloaked, sweaty body moved into its path, taking the blow for her, and saving her life.

*

Byleth awoke from a dreamless sleep in a void with emerald stars. She had been in battle, she last recalled...she had wanted desperately to save that young noble girl, without knowing why...

And now she floated. She felt a wave of disorientation and nausea as she twisted without falling, floating in a nothingness with only green wisps for illumination...

"You FOOL! You utter, complete, imbecile!" A child's voice she recognized from her dreams. Byleth wiggled her body in the airless void, trying to face her accuser. She was soon assisted when the voice let out a childish groan, then she gasped as she was abruptly battered by gusts, not of wind, but _force_ , that hammered her body relentlessly into a proper pose to face her tormentor.

An enraged girl in blue robes with colorful accents considered her, lounging on an ancient stone throne with a curious emblem at its enormously tall headrest. The child had thick unshorn green hair that reached to her knees, as well as twin braids of red and white that hung in front of her pointed ears.

The girls' face was contorted in a sneer. "You are such a MORTAL!" she hissed, as if it was the most vile insult. "You don't think beyond the current moment, do you? No, because that's all you live in!" A childish scoff. "And now we're dead! Again!"

Byleth tried to move but found her hands and feet bound by the unknown force. Only her mouth and eyes seemed to work. "Again--?" Byleth queried. No matter what had happened to her, she was determined to get some answers.

Sothis scowled down at Byleth from her glowing stone throne. "You don't remember, do you? Typical. I try to show you Truths, even try to make you experience them, and try, as gently as I am capable of, mind you, to show you what you truly are." The child goddess sighed and sank back into the throne, absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair. "So here we are again. With you and me dead, while we wait for our daughter to choose another vessel."

Byleth blinked in true incomprehension. "I don't have a daughter. I'd like to think I'd remember THAT."

Sothis giggled at her response. "Perhaps not in our current incarnation, but definitely in another." She tilted her head and the mass of green curls shifted with her. "But you have just sacrificed all to save one small albino girl. Why is that?"

Byleth tried to squirm free of the forces holding her. When that availed her nothing, and seeing that the Goddess could probably wait for an Eternity for her answer, Byleth looked away and mumbled out, "I didn't want that bastard to kill her."

Sothis regarded her, saying nothing.

Byleth fumed, sweated, and finally blushed. She couldn't move, and apparently nothing less than the full truth would free her to either life or death. At this particular moment, Byleth couldn't decide which was preferable.

"She..." Byleth cracked out, pausing, then swallowed and qualified, "She...reminded me of myself." She fixated a defiant glare to the Goddess, daring her to demand more.

"That is a Truth," Sothis nodded solemnly, ignoring Byleth's glare. She lowered her eyes and sighed. "And I suppose it is my fault, in part. You are so good at fighting, yet now you don't want to fight to just kill. You now want to protect. Even though your emotions are stunted, when you see an Other in need, you are still filled with such empathy to them cannot help yourself from interfering, from sacrificing yourself." The child Goddess paused. "Just like myself."

Byleth felt a surge of triumph and closeness with the Goddess, even though she still couldn't move. She wasn't even sure if she was still breathing. Gazing directly into the eyes of the Goddess, Byleth pleaded, "Then help me save her."

Sothis shook her head. "You do not know what you ask. She was destined to die by her own hand, in a twist of ironic fate unknown to all but a few. And she is a young woman who is deep in a dark place, manipulated by others who hide in shadows and masks innumerable to count. If you choose to spare her life, to save her, your life will become an endless trial, an endurance of will, where trust is always uncertain."

Byleth considered Sothis' response. Then she began to laugh, and laugh loudly, marveling in the strange sensation but unable to stop. Her laughter was interrupted as the forces binding her grew tighter and her soul gasped in pain, and Sothis' eyes began to glow, and the fey green power of the throne brightened intolerably even as the shadows around it deepened.

"YOU. DARE. MOCK. ME?" shouted the Goddess, as she floated before her throne, a dreadful energy and majesty surrounding her, her hair floating on intangible winds. A glowing Ankh, that which was Power Beyond Power, burst into sunlike radiance behind her, making the Goddess appear as a dark and grim eclipse.

Byleth gaped in awe then turned her face to avoid the searing light. Shamed and terrified for more than herself, she quavered, "Forgive me, Sothis. But what you described for this young woman and myself sounds simply like what a mortal goes through every day."

The glowing ankh of power behind the child faded quickly in response to her reply, and her eyes and hair of the Goddess returned to her usual appearance. She softly and slowly settled to her seat in her throne. She silently considered Byleth's words for a long moment, then said in a small voice, "You speak a Truth. Nothing can Live without Pain."

Byleth felt a surge of hope burn brightly within her, making her chest beat strangely. She nodded before the Goddess, the best she could manage for a bow, and made her plea. "Holy Sothis, I beg you for your blessing."

Now it was Sothis' turn to laugh loudly. "Well now," she giggled, "it seems that dying has made you more pious, at least. Very well. I will return you to the realm of the living, and you will have the opportunity to save the young girl who has captured your fancy." Sothis grew solemn as she regarded the distraught Byleth. "But be aware, this power is limited, because you are still encased in mortal flesh, and your body cannot stand the strain of Infinity. Use this power heedlessly, and you risk all lives, not just the ones you are trying to save." Byleth nodded, not sure if she understood, but then felt as if she was changing, returning...breathing? Everything about herself felt heavier and solid again. She was on the cart as before, her sword in her left hand as she saw a charging Kostas trying to kill a defenseless Edelgard, but she still saw Sothis on her green throne.

Byleth smiled with true happiness before she faded and returned to existence. "Sothis. Thank you for granting me this chance," she said as her body vanished into motes of green light, that swiftly departed into the immediate Past.

Sothis waited on her throne, for an age and an instant. She felt History and the Future throb inside of her, eternally at war, and it made her skull ache. "We shall See..." the Goddess whispered, watching the green motes swirl before her.

On impulse, she flicked a strand of her power to assist Byleth. Now Edelgard would remember the original timeline, only to see Byleth truly save her this time.

Sothis sat on her throne, brooding.

Yes, she did not lack for Empathy. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sothis is sass, and we must honor to the Goddess.


	5. Call For Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A great battle is a terrible thing," the old knight said,  
> "but in the midst of blood and carnage, there is sometimes also beauty,  
> beauty that could break your heart.”
> 
> ― George R.R. Martin, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small act of heroism turns into something much larger.

Ch 5.

Call for Help

Edelgard gasped as she didn't die. She blinked and recalled that the young mercenary had just taken an axe blow meant for her, sacrificing their life for hers...

Somehow, Kostas was still charging her, still yelling, but the axe had yet to fall. This is Death, the Princess thought wildly. A single moment that you regret over and over, forever helpless. The Goddess was punishing her for her hubris, damning her to an eternity of failure and terror. She had never felt more helpless...

Then a sword flashed in the sun as a blue cloaked figure leapt from the wagon behind her. It twisted in the air to land with a thud behind the bandit.

Kostas grinned as he swung his arms down onto the girl...

...to splash her with blood from the pumping stumps where his wrists used to be. He shrieked and stumbled backwards, and gibbered with horror to see his hands twitching around his axe on the ground. He staggered to the side and slid down a wall.

Edelgard blinked sweat from her eyes again as she saw the tall blue cloaked mercenary rising in front of her, holding her bloody sword in grim satisfaction. She dropped her dagger and stepped forward shakily, clumsily, and clutched at Byleth like the only thing that was real. "You...you're alive! I thought he had killed you! I thought he was going to kill me," she gasped, her Imperial defenses down. She looked back to Kostas, who was moaning and sobbing, trying vainly to stem the flow of blood from his arms.

Byleth looked at her strangely. "I just did what anyone else would do. I didn't want that bastard to hurt you," she said, then wondered at her own words. Her face felt hot as Edelgard directed her full attention on her while holding her arm. Byleth could not think of a polite way to disengage from the warmth of the young noble, but wasn't she sure she wanted to anyway.

"Not just anyone could have done that," Edlergard smiled uncertainly up to Byleth, who experienced a swift pain in her chest at that smile but couldn’t look away. A moment passed, then suddenly becoming aware that she was covered in blood, clutching the arm of an equally bloody mercenary soldier like a peasant girl in a fable, the young noble released her hold and stepped backwards, her formal nature restoring itself instantly save for a low flush on her neck. "I do most sincerely apologize. I'm not used to being saved. But I can tell you frankly that the Adrestian Empire has a need of exceptional individuals such as yourself," the future Empress said in an earnest appeal.

Byleth couldn't think of a response to such an immense request, and while she struggled for one, she heard her fellow members of her father's mercenary company sounding off, along with groans of wounded and dying men and cries for quarter and mercy. Byleth shouted in response, and after hearing a reply, directed her attention at the young noble in front of her. "The battle appears to be over," she said, watching as Edelgard suddenly appear to grow colder, more statuesque. Misinterpreting the masked emotions, Byleth finished lamely with the proper address, "...Your Imperial Highness."

"Not...quite," said the Princess, turning dangerous violet eyes onto the weak form of the bandit who attacked her. He was alive, but barely, turning up pleading eyes on his pale ugly face to the two women before him. Edelgard swiftly and elegantly picked up the axe at her feet, plucking the hands away from it like so much garbage as she casually strolled to where the man lay, the axehead resting on her shoulder. Byleth watched and felt cold suddenly, knowing she could and should stop this, her throat tight.

Edelgard smoothly shrugged her shoulder and wrist, slowly dropping the heavy axe blade onto Kostas' skull.

The Imperial heir dropped the axe, now stuck in the twitching corpse, and picked up her small dagger, resheathing it. She shouldered past Byleth to return to the town square, where an assembly of townspeople and mercenaries was forming, if the jubiant voices were any indication. Byleth could hear her father's voice in the din. The young white haired noble in red and black called out behind her without looking. "Thank you, mercenary. You will be adequately compensated for saving me, I assure you."

Byleth was bruised, battered, and was sure she had a broken arm, but none of that seemed to matter as she slowly turned her sword and with effort resheathed it without cleaning it. Byleth looked after the slowly retreating back of the Imperial princess. She decided she welcomed the deep ache in her arm, feeling it was better, more real, than some ghostly pain deep inside of her. She shook her head twice to clear her thoughts.

It was just another battle. Just another job.

*

Trips dismounted quickly, securing her horse's reins temporarily to a nearby strong tree branch. Rushing to the side of the form huddled behind another large tree, she peered deep into the shadows and leaves to see the curled up form of a softly breathing Zarad. Without her magical senses, she would have never found him behind the blind of branches he had built in a small depression against the roots.

Trips sniffed and almost gagged at the pervasive wrongness she felt around the corporal, the tell-tale aftereffects of dark magic. Knowing she had her work cut out for her, the woman reached out with a pale hand to touch her friend's scarred face, noting the vomit and blood across his chin.

Zarad's eyes opened at the contact. He smiled weakly and gasped, "Ah, so this is what Fodlan has come to. Even an Almyran man covered in vomit and shit is irresistible, no?"

"Hardly," said Trips, laying her staff to his chest and lowering herself to her knees. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands above his heart. "I just thought this was the local latrine, and I found you here instead. Hopefully I can heal you before I have to go myself."

Zarad leaned his bald head back against the crook of a tree root. He whispered, "I assume everyone else is lost, and you are here to grant me the quick mercy of death."

Glowing light appeared on Trips' interlocked fingers, enveloping her staff, lightening the forest shadows around them. She murmured softly, "I hate to disappoint you, but we won. I'm just healing you so I get to watch you suffer more."

"Spoken...like...a...Fodlan...wench," Zarad bit out as he felt his insides heave again, muscle and fluids and connective tissue being forcibly restored to their proper places. At last the glow from Trips' hands flared then quickly dimmed, and Zarad cried out once before fainting.

Trips sweated and trembled from the magical exertion as she checked the corporal's vitals slowly. She had to use her staff to slowly stand on wobbly legs, and wondered at his recovery time. She didn't have the strength to pull him up upon her horse. Perhaps it would be best to ask the Captain and Byleth to detail a squad with a cot to retrieve Zarad, although he would want waterskins to clean himself up first...

Lost in her musing, Trips was slow to react as her horse suddenly pranced and neighed. As she whirled to see what had alarmed her mount, Trips found her eyes crossing at an arrow point from a fully drawn bow inches from her face. She glanced down the shaft to see her assailant. A woman with violet cropped hair and pale skin in green leather armor.

A monotone alto. "Move and you die."

*

Remire village had never seen such a spontaneous celebration. At length, Carlos had simply rolled out the ale barrels outside the inn for easier access, as the interior had never been so full of singing, celebrating villagers. Jeralt was forced to bow again and again, along with Mayor Millson, to the young nobles who insisted on being serviced and acknowledged first, logistics be damned; even the one who didn't even act like a noble asked for special treatment and consideration. Never mind that there were still living bandits to consider for possible healing, imprisonment and interrogation, while fatally wounded ones had to be put down. Never mind that his healer and corporal were still missing in the woods, hours overdue. And never mind that his daughter was nursing a broken and swollen arm on her sword hand, while she stoically took charge of every chore that avoided the nobles, including the burning of the dead, assessing the damage to the smithy and the village wall, and detailing a squad of volunteers from the company to locate Trips and Zarad. Jeralt felt nothing but pride for his daughter's conduct this day, and tried to tell her as much. He got nothing more than a clipped "Thank you, Captain. Returning to duty." Jeralt took a moment to wet his throat with a mug of cool ale as he tried to decide what kind of idiot said daughters were a blessing, and savored a brief moment of peace.

"Captain!"

Jeralt took another hasty swig and dolefully regarded the interior of his empty mug. "What is it, Duncan?" he asked.

The tall young soldier leaned forward. "Company of Church Knights at the gate, sir. They've got our squad, the corporal, and Miss Trips prisoner," he said in a low voice.

Jeralt threw his ale mug to the ground and rapped out, "Get Byleth to herd those princelings to the gate to show the Knights they're safe. We've got to head this off." Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he rushed ahead past his subordinate.

Even at a flat run, Jeralt reached the gate just as he saw local men and even some of his own company rushing to open it frantically, their voices high with fear. He slowed to a trot and then waited with his hand on his sword. As the bar was removed and the wide gate pulled open, he saw the reason for the men's agitation. A blonde woman with tan skin in dirty white armor, armed with a faintly glowing sword of bone across her back, entered the village with a full company of the Knights of Seiros, their armor clanking as they marched into the village. Jeralt had never seen her before, but knew of her by reputation. He wondered if he could fool her as to his identity. 

"Hail to you, Catherine, wielder of Thunderbrand," Jeralt called out as she drew close, raising a mailed hand in salute.

Catherine returned the gesture. "Hail to you, Jeralt the Blade Breaker, leader of Jeralt's Mercenaries," she greeted, her eyes scanning the remains of battle before resting on Jeralt's surprised and chagrined face. She tilted her head in a familiar gesture. "What, you didn't think Lady Rhea didn't know you were still around? The Church has kept loose tabs on you and your company for years. Although I must admit I didn't expect to find you here."

Jeralt frowned in consideration, then sighed. "I should have guessed it was too easy."

Catherine laughed and said, "Yeah, you should have. Looks like we missed the fun. Are the students safe?"

Jeralt nodded. "My daughter is bringing them now. All three are uninjured aside from fatigue, and they acquitted themselves well in battle. If you've satisfied yourself that I'm still me, do you mind releasing my officers and men?" He looked behind the Holy Knight to see a weak and dirty Zarad and the gagged and bound form of a furious Trips.

Catherine nodded once and called out behind her. "Shamir, release the prisoners!" Hearing an acknowledgement, Catherine said slowly, "The Knights of Seiros are in your debt, I suppose. Lady Rhea will be surprised to hear who saved them. She still speaks of you often."

"Nothing complimentary, I hope," Jeralt drawled, then said more seriously, "I don't suppose we can walk away from this if we want?"

Catherine folded her arms and warned, "You would be walking away from Lady Rhea. You know how she'd react to that."

Jeralt looked to see where his daughter, her arm in a sling, was leading the three still-dickering nobles up the lane to the Knights. _Yeah, I do_ , he thought. _And that's the problem._ Trips' icy commentary to the poker-faced Knight escorting her and Zarad to Jeralt was cut off as she squaked in concern and hurried forward to tend to his injured daughter. Finally he turned back to Catherine.

"You know what, I'm an old man, and I think we should relax a bit and take this indoors. Want to join me? We've still got some ale left."

Catherine's eyes widened, then she barked another short laugh and nodded with a grin.

*

Mayor Millson, miller, landowner, grandfather, representative of Lord Varley, and thus de facto leader of Remire Village, had never seen such a personage assembled in the town hall that evening.

At one side of his long table sat the Holy Knight of Seiros, Thunder Catherine, along with her second, a quiet and deadly looking foreigner named Shamir. The three young nobles sat beside them, the tall prince and pale princess looking tired but attentive, while the other noble from the Alliance sat dozing with his head down. Three helmed and fully armored Knights of Seiros stood behind each noble, tasked with the duty of bodyguards.

On the other side sat the leaders of the mercenary group he had grown to know well and welcome for the coin they spent in his village year after year. Jeralt's reputation alone had kept the village safe and law-abiding for decades, and poachers and thieves gave Remire and its outlying farms a wide berth. That a large band of outlaws--led by some dastard of a mage, no less!--had attempted and failed to sack Remire would only increase that reputation if Millson had anything to do with it. The big Almyran hunter was another matter, but Jeralt had vouched for him repeatedly and Millson had to make do with the foreigner's presence. And the value of the healing magician, Miss Trips, was a wonderful boon for the health and safety for many of Remire's residents and animals.

That left Jeralt's odd blue haired daughter, who sat stiffly by her father with her right arm still in a sling, and only vaguely resembled him in appearance and certainly not in mannerisms. The girl had a flat affect and a habit of asking blunt, direct questions and odd behaviors that made people in the village uncomfortable, but she had grown up to become a diligent worker and capable swordswoman. Some people were even saying she had personally rescued the young Imperial princess herself from the bandit leader! Yes, he must mention that in his next letter to Count Varley...

Catherine spoke formally to Jeralt and Millson after introductions had been made. "The Central Church and the Knights of Seiros owe your company and this village a deep debt of gratitude for your charity and bravery in saving our most important charges. Mayor Millson, whatever Remire may request from the Central Church and the Knights of Seiros is yours, if it is within our power to grant it. I speak for the Archbishop herself in this matter." Millson immediately beamed and began furiously thinking of what reward he could ask, as Catherine looked to Jeralt and his officers. "I am certain that Lady Rhea will want to thank each of you in person, as well as compensate you generously. She would also certainly wish to reinstate her most renowned and celebrated Knight--thought dead all these years--back into her service," Catherine finished with slight sarcasm.

Jeralt and Byleth were silent at this and looked at each other. Zarad was still pale and weak, but his eyes brightened as he leaned forward at the word "compensate." Trips, sitting next to him, shifted a foot slightly to kick him under the table. He mugged a face at her in return. When it was clear no remarks were forthcoming from the Captain or Byleth, Trips sighed and responded for the company. "While we are honored by the attention of the Archbishop and the Knights of Seiros," she began, turning a quick glare to quiet archer by Catherine's side, who stared back impassively, "Captain Jeralt has put that phase of his life behind him. We are an independent organization, with no political or religious allegiances, and are currently under contract to House Gaspard. We merely acted as any child of Seiros would in saving these poor, beleaguered children. We had no clue to their identities until they informed us."

Catherine looked baffled at the rejection, while the archer spoke quietly. "What if the Central Church insists?"

Trips stiffened and said with venom, "Excuse me, but while you were tying me up and shoving a gag in my mouth, I didn't get a chance to catch your name."

"Shamir. Knight of Seiros," said the foreign women.

"Well, Shamir, Knight of Seiros, it appears that the Central Church has larger problems than harassing a small independent mercenary group. Like letting the three heirs of the most important territories on this continent almost be assassinated," Trips finished and sat back, crossing her arms.

Catherine and Shamir shared a look, and Catherine said, "We're not certain it was an assassination attempt, although working on that assumption seems to be a good starting point. The students were on a joint exercise in the fields and woods nearby Garreg Mach when they were suddenly attacked by this group of outlaws. The professor of the Golden Deer house, who was leading the exercise, is still missing--"

The young noble named Claude snorted loudly, and raised his head to reveal his dozing had been a show. "Yeah, about him," he said in a derogatory tone, "I'm pretty sure he ran away."

Catherine quickly looked at Claude. "What?!" she exclaimed incredulously.

"I'm not kidding. When we ran into the woods I could see him running away from both the students, the outlaws, and Garreg Mach. I think he was heading west but it was hard to tell, since I was running for my life at the time," said Claude peevishly.

Catherine was outraged and hid it poorly. "All Garreg Mach professors swear an oath to keep their charges safe, and not to mention are held to be associates representing the Church of Seiros! That little shit weasel! When I get my hands on him--"

"Let's not lose focus," interrupted Shamir, cutting off the Holy Knight’s tirade. Catherine restored to silent fuming. "The Knights and the Church can put out a warrant for Professor Masterson's desertion and cowardice later. What's more concerning is that this 'bandit attack' occurred just as the Knights were conducting their own field exercises away from the students, which delayed our response significantly."

Catherine snorted at the memory. "Most of the other students were wise enough to band together or seek shelter nearby in Garreg Mach Town, but no one thought the three most important heirs in Fodlan would start using their 'noble sense' and run as far away from Garreg Mach as possible," she finished, glaring at her charges. Only Dimitri had shame enough to blush, while Edelgard and Claude ignored the comment.

Claude lazily smiled at Catherine, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. "Well, when a bunch of crazy men with swords and axes burst out of the woods, take one look at you and one shouts, 'That's one of them! Get him!' you get to use what I would like to call your 'rabbit sense,'" he countered. He rudely yawned. "I was simply trying to make a strategic withdrawal. I don't know why the Princess and Prince felt compelled to join me. Maybe my glowing personality?"

"I made the foolish assumption that you actually had a tactical plan in mind," snipped Edelgard, staring straight ahead. "A mistake that nearly cost me my life. I do not intend to make it again."

Dimitri cleared his throat and said in a low voice, "And when I saw Claude and Edelgard alone against all of their foes chasing them, I felt it was my duty to provide assistance. I could not abandon them just for the sake of my own safety."

Catherine grunted at their explanations. "Well, I guess I can't get too angry, since it could have been worse. We'll return to Garreg Mach tomorrow and discuss this with Seteth and Lady Rhea." All three noble faces dropped at that prospect. Catherine tried to lighten her tone. "Besides, I'm sure your classmates will be excited to know you're all safe." The nobles perked up at that. She addressed the Knights behind each student. "Please escort the students to their assigned tents and see that they are refreshed and rested. We will march home at dawn."

"In the name of Seiros," the nearest acknowledged, saluting. The nobles rose and exited the room silently, but could be heard talking and arguing as soon as they were in the hallway, their escorts following.

Catherine and Shamir waited for several heartbeats, quietly regarding Jeralt, Trips, Byleth, and Zarad. Shamir tilted her head a fraction in the Mayor’s direction. Jeralt acknowledged it with a nod and turned his head to address Mayor Millson. "Millson, would you mind getting us a pitcher of ale and some mugs from Carlos? All this talking is making my throat dry." Millson blinked at the request, because he didn't remember Jeralt talking much during this meeting. Or maybe he had? No matter, it was best to make sure the mercenary leader was happy. "I will see to it right away, Captain," said the chubby old man, as he bumbled his way out of the room.

Another few heartbeats of silence passed after they heard the door latch close.

Jeralt looked frankly at Catherine. "It's that bad, isn't it?"

Catherine heaved a sigh and leaned forward. "I don't want to admit it. I hate doing this. But finding you out here in Remire Village was a blessing from the Goddess herself, Jeralt. If you and your company hadn't been here..." her voice trailed off and she seemed to be lost in thought.

Shamir said, "Even if this hadn't happened, Lady Rhea would have probably asked us to seek you out eventually, Jeralt. It's not as bad as any of us think; it's likely worse. We just barely avoided a disaster today that would have made the Tragedy of Duscar look like friendly training bout. All of Fodlan could have erupted into war."

Trips said slowly, "We would have to cancel our current commission..."

Catherine roused herself suddenly. "Not a problem. We'll buy you out, and send some of our own auxiliaries to Lord Lonato instead. He can deal with that and like it," she muttered darkly.

Zarad rumbled, "And what about having a blasphemous heretic like me?"

Shamir responded instantly. "Also not a problem. I'm equally blasphemous."

Catherine looked away from her fellow Knight. "That you are..." she said in a low voice everyone heard.

Byleth looked back and forth from her Father, friends, and the two Knights. "What's going on? We're joining the Knights--? Just like that?"

Jeralt nodded down to her. "Maybe, kid. We just got swept up in something big."

Byleth still seemed confused, so Trips qualified for her, falling automatically back into tutor mode. "The Knights are desperate, Byleth. They may not look it and definitely don't act like it, but right now they don't know who to trust. We would be more reliable allies than what they've currently got. And despite our personal feelings about the Church," she said as she looked at Jeralt and Zarad, then back to Byleth, "I think it's a safe assumption that whoever's trying to attack it and undermine it is probably worse." 

Shamir nodded, folding her arms. "Hmph. I couldn't have put it any better." She sighed and added, "This attack shows that Garreg Mach is compromised. Maybe Masterson did it; by running away, he seems to be a likely suspect. But it could be someone still inside the monastery itself. It could be a soldier, a monk, a priest. It could be all three. We don't know. All we do know is they have excellent intelligence. We're likely to see more attacks in the future. Just so you know what you're getting into," she said with a humorless smile.

Catherine looked down and said softly, "The fact that these no-name criminals are getting help from a mage points to a wider conspiracy. What's frustrating is that we know almost nothing about them or their motives. This attack could have been against the Alliance, the Holy Kingdom, the Empire, or the Church. Maybe even all four. We couldn't even examine the body. There was nothing but a pile of greasy ash near your discarded lance, Jeralt. Without you telling me what you had done we might have never seen it."

Trips' eyes widened at that. "Some kind of contingency spell on that guy," she breathed. "I've only read about those in books."

"Probably," shrugged Catherine. She laid her hands on the table, breathed out slowly, then looked up to stare at the Captain in his eyes. "I can't make you, Jeralt. And I'm not asking you why you left the Knights in the first place. But I beg you, for Lady Rhea's sake and for Fodlan's. Please rejoin the Church. Not just you, but the rest of your company as well. Your strength and reputation would be invaluable to us."

Jeralt grimaced and looked aside, his eyes far away. "I understand, but I left the Church more than twenty years ago to raise my daughter after her mother...died," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I'm not sure I can go back to the Church and face her again." No one had to ask who he meant by her.

Byleth looked to her Father and laid her her left hand on his own. He still looked away but gave her hand a light squeeze.

The silence stretched long, and Byleth turned her attention to Catherine. "What's Lady Rhea like?" she asked.

Catherine chuckled at that and flushed. "I have dedicated my life to Lady Rhea and sworn Thunderbrand to her will. She is the kindest, gentlest, most loving person I have ever known."

"Catherine isn't exactly what you would call objective on this topic," interjected Shamir. Catherine's flush under her tan skin deepened as the archer went on. "But Rhea's always been fair to me and others. She's always looking for ways to help the most people she can." She shrugged stiffly. "She can be aloof and mysterious at times, but that's a religious leader's prerogative I suppose."

Zarad snorted and scratched his scarred face. "I care nothing for Fodlan or its Church. But wherever the Captain goes, I go as well. Even into the den of the Fairy Goddess herself. Besides," he added with a smile, "there is still the matter of that reward you mentioned..."

Shamir nodded and actually smiled back, while Catherine swallowed whatever retort she had in mind. All eyes turned to Jeralt who still sat with his head turned away.

Byleth felt something squeeze slightly in her chest, and couldn't name what it was. But this was odd behavior for her father. She had never seen him act so...afraid. "Dad--?" she said hesitantly. Then Byleth felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked back to see Trips looking at her father and herself with some unreadable emotion on her face. "Captain," she said slowly at Jeralt's back, "I think we both knew this day would come eventually. Shamir is right...the Knights would have sought us out. It was just a matter of when. Now that it's here...I say we face it together. Standing up. Besides," she more lightly, "I can't leave my father-daughter duo of botched medical experiments laying about unprotected. Someone might steal you both and take away my years of research."

Jeralt coughed at that, which eventually became a full fledged chuckle. He turned and smiled at Byleth, who gave a small mechanical small in return but with eyes bright with approval. He nodded to Trips and Zarad, then looked at Catherine and Shamir.

"Alright. We're in."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added Cathy and Shammy to help convince Jeralt. Now he REALLY has no choice but to rejoin the Knights. Also, Rhea sent out her most competent Knights after the royals.


	6. Fodlan In A Nutshell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Break, break, break,  
> On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!  
> And I would that my tongue could utter  
> The thoughts that arise in me.
> 
> \--Tennyson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each Lord tries to lay a claim on Byleth. Emotions start to be discovered.

Ch 6.

Fodlan In A Nutshell

"Ow," said Byleth, without changing expression, as Trips examined her arm after a quick healing spell.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too," said Trips, running her fingers up and down Byleth's forearm. "You certainly got hit hard. This is gonna take another week to fully heal correctly, even with me seeing you every day. You know, for some weird reason you’ve always been resistant to magical healing from me. How did this happen again?"

Byleth stared over the healer’s shoulder to where the gaggle of young nobles argued and laughed, their armored Knights following them like sunlit wraiths. They had been marching all morning, and in the early afternoon Catherine had called for a break near a mountainous stream in the forested hills nearby Garreg Mach. Byleth had had enough to do and attend without crossing paths with them since the meeting yesterday evening. "Something got thrown through a wall I was standing next to. Wasn't expecting it. It was an accident," said the young mercenary.

Trips followed Byleth's gaze. "I see," she said, carefully assisting Byleth to secure her arm in its rude leather sling. "Well, piece of free advice. Try to give such 'accidents' a wide berth in the future, ok? I can only try to heal you so many times a day. Eventually I'll have to start charging you gold."

"I hear you," promised Byleth. She stood quietly for a moment, watching Trips rejoining Zarad and Jeralt, who were speaking with Shamir and Catherine and some other Knights in the shade of a tree, while other Knights watered horses or checked packs and saddlebags. She thought about telling Trips about speaking with Sothis again yesterday during the battle, but a piping voice inside of her protested, wanting to protect the sanctity of that dream-like moment before she had saved Edelgard. After a time Byleth nodded to herself. There was too much change in the air, and too many things were uncertain. She would confide to her stepmother later.

Not wanting to disturb the older adults deep in conference, Byleth walked over to hear what the three royal nobles were saying by the running stream nearby. As she approached, she overheard Edelgard speaking to Claude, who was crouched in the water, filling up waterskins, while Dimitri sat atop a large rock. She just caught the trail end of Edelgard’s speech.

"...you must admit that there's a mystery there."

"Oh certainly," Claude said easily. "But everyone has mysteries, Princess. What's the point of making an interrogation about it? You could just as easily drive a potential ally away."

"Or you could use the inquiry as an opportunity of achieving mutual trust and benefit," said Prince Dimitri, looking into the forest. "I must agree with Edelgard on this, Claude. Too many secrets can be a toxic influence. Eventually, the truth will always come out..."

Edelgard was the first to notice Byleth's approach as her escort stepped slightly aside to let her pass. She turned and both Dimitri and Claude arose as she walked near. Byleth felt an awkwardness she had not felt for years as she said, "Excuse me. I wasn't trying to interrupt."

Edelgard gave a triumphant smile at her, startling for its warmth, and Byleth was stunned to see her uniform, her red cape, and her armor was nearly completely spotless and clean, despite yesterday's battle. "Why, speak of the mercenary!" she exclaimed. "Byleth, was it? We were just discussing you and your notable skill in battle." Even her silver hair shone as it fell in a tasteful arrangement down her back, with two stylish locks framing her face. Byleth couldn't stop staring at Edelgard as she wondered how the Princess had found time to do all of this. She felt like a dirty, sweaty rustic next to a gleaming queen.

Prince Dimitri graced her with a nod. "Indeed. I am for one most certainly glad you saved Edelgard from that monstrous cur. Death is the only appropriate punishment for such a violent beast," Dimitri spoke, his voice slowly shifting from regal ease to a low growl. The Prince was clean and rather put together himself from yesterday's battle, although his uniform, armor and cape were darkly stained.

"How fortunate we can agree on that, at least," said Edelgard with only a hint of sarcasm. "I must admit I was caught off guard. I have already described in detail to my companions about your daring aerial leap off of a wagon to save my life. But your skill with a sword--in your weak hand, while injured no less!--is quite remarkable, and I do not say such things lightly."

"Oh yeah! I mean, I can kill plenty of people with my bow, which I did yesterday by the way, but certainly not up close and personal with a sword like that. You were going through those bandits like a dancer. Thirsty?" said a smiling Claude, offering a sloshing skin. Unlike the princess or prince, he was still filthy and mud splattered from the excursions of the past two days, despite being knee deep in the cold mountain stream. 

Byleth nodded and accepted the skin with her left hand, but then winced as she tried to lift her right arm out the sling by habit to drink without spilling. She stood for an uncomfortable moment with the skin in hand, feeling warm despite the cool shade.

"Please, allow me to assist," said Prince Dimitri, leaping from the rock. He moved forward and gently held the skin so Byleth could drink her fill without an undue mess. Byleth nodded her gratitude to the prince as she finished.

Edelgard and Claude looked at them throughout. Claude simply grinned as he grabbed the skin from Byleth to refill it, while Edelgard said sharply, "It appears you two are quite familiar already."

Byleth felt herself start to sweat from the attention, while the tall blonde Prince retorted for her at the Princess. "It is nothing of that sort. Lady Byleth was concerned for my safety and was injured trying to provide me assistance in battle yesterday. The least I can do is show her due courtesy in return."

"That won't be necessary, Prince Dimitri," said Byleth, hastily. She racked her mind for further things to say, then managed, "But thank you for your kindness." The considerate attention of Dimitri was a stark contrast to what she had witnessed yesterday. A quick look at his hands noted they were clean, except for something dark under the fingernails. She stepped back away from him, wondering how much longer she could withstand the scrutiny from this crowd.

Edelgard, however, took her opportunity relentlessly. She announced in a tone meant to be casual, "I am pleased that you are returning with us to Garreg Mach monastery. As a child of the former Knight-Captain, you should certainly have your pick among the Houses when you enroll at Garreg Mach Monastery."

Byleth was bewildered. "Enroll? As a student?"

"Naturally," Edelgard frowned, and continued. "I had overheard that your father has agreed to rejoin the Knights, with his officers as his adjutants. There was no mention of you, so I simply took that to mean you wished to further your own military education at the monastery."

"I...never thought about it." A military education from the Church at Garreg Mach Academy was something for children of nobles and knights and the occasional wealthy merchant, not for a mercenary's daughter. Byleth thought some more and hedged, "I mean...I'm too old, aren't I? And isn't there a tuition?"

"Well, you're not too old to me at least," said Claude, handing out filled waterskins to all companions, singling out Byleth for a roguish wink. "But you certainly wouldn't be the oldest student there. And I've heard of the Church waiving tuition for children of Knights or certain nobles who are generous with the Church. After that, you'd end up in the Academy, boarding with the people from the land of your birth. I guess that means you and Edelgard could become classmates.”

Byleth's stomach did a back-flip at Claude’s comment, while her brain was suddenly picturing herself fighting side-by-side with Edelgard. But then she thought again and carefully admitted to them, “Actually...I'm not sure where in Fodlan I was born. My father told me I was only raised in Remire.”

Edelgard paused at that, then smiled again. “Well, you are quite the enigma wrapped in a riddle,” she said, smirking with a glance to her fellow nobles. “What could a legendary former Knight of Seiros--who was counted dead by all reports--be doing with a mystery child all by himself in a small Imperial village?”

“Please, Edelgard, cease tormenting Lady Byleth. If there is a tale of hers to tell, she will tell it by her own patience,” reproved Dimitri. Byleth was trying to formulate a response when Claude rudely burst in, immediately focused on the more practical aspects of Byleth's admission.

“Wow, really? That's great! I mean, it's not great you don't know where you were born, don't get me wrong, but it's great in that it gives you options. On rare occasions, there are orphans or adoptive children ignorant of their true parentage who are given the option to choose their House at Garreg Mach. That means you could pick any House! Anyway, you should think about joining me in the best House there is, the Golden Deer. We represent the most civilized part of Fodlan, the Leicester Alliance, and you should know that we welcome commoner and noble alike," he finished with a broad smile.

"As do all the houses, Claude von Riegan," Edelgard said primly. Byleth turned her head to try to politely look at her, but it was a strain. They were so used to listening to themselves talk, addressing the empty air before them, it was like they had forgotten she existed. "I am the House Leader for the Black Eagle House this year. We strive to eliminate the artificial barriers that Crests and nobility can create between worthy individuals of merit. Your company and strength would be most welcome among us." Still trying to follow Edelgard's words, Byleth was unprepared as the royal violet eyes tried to capture hers and succeeded for a moment. Byleth felt her brain and mouth seize looking into those depths.

She managed a stammer after an ungenteel pause. "I am--I mean I admit I...am unsure--"

Dimitri, well versed in courtly rescues, assisted her. "I believe Lady Byleth is uncertain as of yet," he declared. He inclined his head and offered his hand to her as they heard calls to resume march, the escorts stirring beside their charges with muted clanks. Byleth felt she could do nothing but accept, but felt the weight of Edelgard's glare and Claude's knowing smile behind her.

They began walking back to the others, the Knights' armor behind them singing softly, and Dimitri said, "I am the leader of the Blue Lion House at the monastery, although I will refrain from making rude entreaties for you to join my House. I believe it is best for you to cut your own path in life, the one that you choose for yourself." Edelgard stiffened and looked sharply to Dimitri at that, almost bumping into her escort. Dimitri failed to notice as he was still walking side by side with Byleth, his arm holding Byleth's uninjured one. With a cat-like bow as they resumed their place in line, he added, "Although I would be deeply honored if you find the Blue Lions of Faerghus preferable to your tastes."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Byleth managed. She rallied herself to acknowledge the others. "And thank you, Your Imperial Highness, and thank you, my Lord Duke. It's...a lot to think about, but I will need to discuss this with my father and friends." All three of the nobles nodded, satisfied if not pleased.

Catherine and other Knights were issuing calls to march, and the ranks reassembled, with the Knights already in position at the head, the students and Byleth in the middle, and the less disciplined and boisterous mercenaries of Jeralt's company bringing up the rear. Blyeth was walking with Claude when she noted Zarad passing by, walking to the rear, his bald pate gleaming in a sunshaft. He gave Byleth a mournful look while rolling his eyes, indicating their company. Byleth didn't change expression but rolled her eyes at the nobles, indicating them. He barked a laugh at her, startling the others who had not seen the exchange, then began shouting for order in the rear ranks, bullying the mercenaries into silence and appropriate squads.

As the various mercenaries obeyed or protested and the march resumed, Claude hung back to walk alongside Byleth and said with exaggerated casualness, "You certainly do have some interesting friends." Edelgard and Dimitri were walking ahead with their escorts, seemingly lost in another argument.

Byleth looked behind her, hearing Zarad starting to shout at another veteren mercenary. " You mean Zarad? I've known him since I was ten. He came back with my dad while he was campaigning in Leicester and Dad had already made him his corporal." Byleth heard Zarad's elaborate insults echo through the woods, finally shaming men into obedience, and briefly smiled. "People call him names or disrespect him just because he's foreign. But he's a good friend to Beatrix and my father and me. He taught me how to smile when I was growing up, because people thought I was weird."

Claude was looking at her strangely. "He taught you how to...smile? Not swordplay? Or archery? Riding?"

Byleth nodded, and qualified for the younger man. "I had my dad and Trips to do that for me. But he saw that I had difficulty with other kids around my age and some adults, too. Boys would ask me to smile or laugh, and when I couldn't they tried to fight me. So I fought back like Dad and Trips taught me. They left me alone after that."

“Wait. I’m lost...who’s Trips?”

A brief moment of surprise, then Byleth extended her hand ahead of her. “I’m sorry. I mean Beatrix. My stepmom. I couldn’t say her name when I was young, so I called her ‘Trips.’ She didn’t mind, and soon I guess everyone called her that. She protected me the best she could from the other kids when I was small.”

Claude pursued his lips, then looked forward. "I know something about that. It can be cruel to grow up when you can't fit in the crowd." They walked in silence for a time, and Claude said, "But you were saying about Zarad?" 

Byleth nodded again and continued her story. "I said the boys eventually left me alone. The girls in Remire didn't. They would make every chore I did harder, like throwing my clothes in the mud or scaring the animals away when it was my turn to feed them. I told them to stop but they just laughed at me and called me names, trying to get me to cry. I wanted to punch them too, but...luckily, I guess, Trips stopped me from really hurting someone. My dad and Trips threatened them and their parents to make them stop, but it just made them scheme against me more." Claude made a slight sound at that, but nodded when Byleth glanced at him. She told him the rest. "So Zarad took me aside one day and showed me how to make faces."

"What kind of faces?" Claude said quietly. He was without his usual attitude, and this attentive listening made Byleth warm up to him.

"The kind of faces you need to talk to people," Byleth told him. "He told me people wear certain masks in certain circumstances, and expressed themselves with them by putting them on, or taking them off. It told people how you were feeling, or how you wanted them to feel with you. So we would practice our faces in the river water and he told me jokes and stories while we fished."

Claude was silent but attentive, and Byleth continued. "It took a lot of practice, but after a year or so Zarad said I was ready. And it worked. People still said I was strange, but they left me alone when I could stand up for myself with words and tell them how I felt. The girls were more occupied with boys by then anyway."

Claude gave a naughty chuckle. "I hope Zarad didn't try to teach you anything about _that._ "

Byleth smiled her small smile at him. "He didn't. Trips did that. But he did teach me the most important secret of all."

They were silent for the next few dozen footsteps, and Claude finally asked, "What was that?"

Byleth solemnly looked at him. "That you seriously need a bath, my Lord Duke."

Claude's mouth dropped open as he halted. He looked gobsmacked.

"Or maybe Zarad just taught me how to joke," Byleth added. She blinked once with her right eye to Claude, her face still deadpan, and then walked ahead to join Edelgard and Dimitri.

Claude started to laugh until he was gasping for breath with his hands on his knees. "Oh wow. Wooooow. She set me up good."

His escort stood quietly behind him, but now spoke up behind her visored helmet. "That's very good, my Lord Duke. Shall we continue moving forward to Garreg Mach...in order to get our bath?"

Claude gave an exaggerated sniff of his armpit. "I am moderately ripe, aren't I?"

"Yes. Only moderately, my Lord Duke."

Claude grinned at his escort and continued walking, but soon lowered his head in thought. Then he looked up at the retreating blue cloak and hair of Byleth ahead in the forest, walking beside Edelgard and Dimitri. He muttered to himself, "I must admit, she's a much sharper player than I gave her credit for."

*

Near sundown they grew close to Garreg Mach monastery, with the deep woods growing more sparse as they passed by woodcutting shacks and farms growing large acres of fruit-bearing trees, or vineyards and fields filled various bushes of berries. Large gardens filled with all sorts of vegetables, known and unknown, went on endlessly next to man-made streams or wells. In the distance, innumerable herds of sheep, cattle, and horses roamed sheltered valley pastures. Children laughed and ran past the Knights as they travelled, while other villagers invoked the Goddess and Saint Seiros for blessings upon the company.

The interruptions caused their group to become separated slightly. Byleth and Dimitri walked alongside each other, while Dimitri's bodyguard cursed at a pack of boys swarming and laughing around him. Claude was chattering into Edelgard's ear, the Princess ignoring him aside from short retorts. The Prince took the opportunity for a quick apology. "I am grateful that you have not mentioned to anyone my shame in yesterday's battle, Lady Byleth," he said to her.

"What shame, Your Highness?" Byleth said, briefly confused.

Dimitri frowned and indicated her sword arm. "It was because of me, that I lost control of myself, that you came to be injured. I...am deeply sorry. Only a thoughtless brute would hurt an ally on the battlefield," he admitted, looking away from her.

Byleth shook her head and looked up at him. "It's fine, Your Highness. Accidents happen in battle. I don't blame you for anything."

Dimitri clenched his jaw stubbornly, and said, "I have a responsibility to control what goes on around me--"

Byleth overrode him. "But you can't. It was one of the first things my dad taught me, Dimitri." He looked at her oddly, but she went on. "Battles are weird, and anything can happen. And it often does. But you have to just react sometimes, to do something in the chaos, or you'll be dead. When you threw that bandit away from you, there wasn't any way you could have known I was behind that wall."

Dimitri had an expression of pained confusion on his face, and eventually sighed, facing forward. "I hear your words, Lady Byleth. But a King must always strive to do better."

Byleth stared at Dimitri as she walked beside him, wondering at his strange noble attitude and gestures, which she could barely comprehend. She hesitated, wondering what Trips would say to a situation like this, then said, "Prince Dimitri?" He gave only slight acknowledgement, so she reached across her body to touch his shoulder. He stopped and looked at her. "Thank you for apologizing. I forgive you."

The briefly walked ahead for a few more steps, but were halted by the crowd of a large farmers' market at the edge of Garreg Mach Town proper, with the Knights trying to funnel through the foulberg outside the town wall, and were now surrounded by stalls and pens and carts. Suddenly Edelgard and Claude had caught up to them. "There you guys are," groaned Claude. "I think I've worn out my welcome with the Princess here. She yearns for better company than me."

"Although the company of farm animals is admittedly better than yours, Claude, I was seeking out our female mercenary," Edelgard said. She nodded to Dimitri. "May I ask what you were discussing with the Prince, Byleth?"

Dimitri stiffened but Byleth turned simple eyes to Edelgard, only saying, "Prince Dimitri was just bragging to me about how strong he is. I told him how I'd cut him down, even left handed."

Claude laughed at that while Edelgard made an appreciative "Ah" but Byleth noted Dimitri nodding to her in gratitude out of the corner of her eye.

They resumed the march, with the annoyed bodyguards straining to stay with their noble charges. The stalls had innumerable varieties of food, most of which Byleth found unfamiliar. Strange breeds of pigs, goats, cattle, and horses made noises or offal behind stables and pens. Byleth caught the whiff of a forge nearby, as well as racks and displays of bright arms and armor. More mundane items, such as fine cloth, houseware, and tools also had displays with shouting hawkers in front of their stalls, demanding attention.

Dimitri noticed Byleth staring at the sights all around her. "Have you ever been to Garreg Mach monastery, Lady Byleth?" 

Byleth was too busy looking around to bother correcting him. "No, I haven't. Some of those farms were as big as Remire village itself! And the variety of food and livestock...and stuff...in these markets..."

Dimitri chuckled but it sounded hollow. "Indeed, we do eat quite well at the monastery. You should talk to my classmates Ingrid and Dedue about it sometime. It is said that this land has been blessed since the construction of the Holy Cathedral of Rebirth, as a sign of favor from the Goddess."

"Or it may simply be something to do with the local climate and soil, and the years of agricultural knowledge developed by the people" said Edelgard coldly, her locks swaying as she stared straight ahead towards their destination.

Dimitri looked scandalized but held his tongue. Claude had no compunction. "You'll have to forgive her Royal Highness, bearer of the Holy Crest of Seiros," he said mockingly as he waved a hand towards Edelgard. "I only wear my atheism on my sleeve. She goes ahead and puts on the entire outfit."

Byleth felt surprised and looked at them. "You don't believe the Goddess exists?"

"No," said Edelgard in tones of iron. She did not look at any of them.

Claude smiled easily towards Byleth and said, "I guess you could say I'm more agnostic than anything. The Goddess may exist, but she's not going to swoop in to save your hide."

"We of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus believe differently," said Dimitri coldly. "The Goddess divinely blessed the first Holy King, Loog the Lion, when he threw off the yoke of the Adrestian tyrants. And the Empire itself was founded by Emperor Wilheim the First and his Queen, Saint Seiros..."

"...or it could simply be that history is written by the living victors, not the defeated dead. The entire Church of Seiros might not have ever existed had King Nemesis won the War of the Ancients," returned Edelgard hotly.

"An interesting perspective, Princess, since that means you might never have existed either," said a winking Claude. "Over in Leicester we tend to be more...cosmopolitan, I suppose, in our beliefs. The Eastern Church mainly exists for charity and a means of education for the populace. But they don't zealously seek out apostates in every corner, especially since they might be traders from overseas with goods to barter and coin to spend! It’s an attitude that appeals to me. I think it's better for everyone everywhere to live and let live."

"Tell that to the Almyrans," sniffed Edelgard, tossing her head dismissively.

Claude laughed loudly. "I just might, the next time I go to war with them!"

Dimitri was still pressing the issue. "This disbelief of yours troubles me sorely, Edelgard. Is it something you learned at the Imperial Court in Enbarr?"

"Not learned. Experienced directly," she returned stonily. With visible tension, she confessed, "I prayed constantly to the Goddess as a child, to restore my father's power and health, or to save me from unscrupulous men, the selfish nobles of the Imperial Court, who saw me only for my status and my Crest. The Goddess did nothing for me. And so I will do nothing for Her."

Byleth's chest felt squeezed. "I'm sorry you got hurt," she stammered. Edelgard glanced only briefly in her direction, but Byleth forced herself to continue. "The Imperial Court sounds like a bad place for someone to grow up."

Edelgard's eyes widened at that, but Claude and Dimitri both nodded sagely at her words. Claude said, "You are not wrong there, Miss Jeralt. The nobles of the Empire--present company excluded!--are so poisonous that they scare away even the snakes and spiders. The only thing that unites them is their love of selfishness, which is totally ironic in a bad way."

"Not the way I would have put it, but I agree," said Dimitri wearily. "The Insurrection of the Seven was a scandal that caused much suffering for Edelgard and her...family."

"Your sympathies are appreciated, but not necessary," said a shaken Edelgard. Managing her voice with an effort, "But you are right that such treachery is still long remembered by House Hresvelg. And that is why I cannot believe in the Goddess. I was forced to forge my own strength and assert my own will on the world in order to protect myself." 

"I can empathize with that, Princess," said Claude, his levity gone. "Except for me, it's not a question of belief, just a question of relevance. Everyone has to endure by their own skill or choices, and find their own strength, Goddess or not. If you feel the Goddess helps, then good for you! If not..." he shrugged.

Sighing, Dimitri said with a frown, "It is a trial to hear such blasphemies nearly daily. The Goddess sees all that we do, and knows all of our hearts. To discount Her Divine judgement..."

"...has no consequences," snapped Edelgard at Dimitri, now clearly angry. "Everything strives and contests on this world, and Goddess spares no favor for those too weak to save themselves. Any prayer to the Goddess falls on either deaf or uncaring ears." The Knights of Seiros walking behind them shifted uneasily at this comment and began muttering among themselves.

"Lady Byleth, you must help me to convince Edelgard that such outspoken heresy will be her undoing," said Dimitri, now angry himself but tightly controlling it. He looked with trepidation at the blue haired mercenary, slowly realizing he knew nothing of her own beliefs. "You do believe in the Goddess and Church of Seiros yourself, do you not?" he asked.

Byleth slowly shook her head, considering her answer as they walked. Her father had avoided the Church of Seiros at every opportunity, except on Holy Days and Rites when to do otherwise might invite a suspicion of impiety. Now that she knew her father had been a former Knight of Seiros, it made a great deal of sense, although she still wasn't sure exactly why. "I'm not sure I can say I believe in them," she said after thinking of her childhood. Edelgard smiled in delight and Dimitri frowned, but then Byleth continued. "But I do know Sothis is real."

The Imperial smile vanished. "How can you know that?" hissed Edelgard.

Dimitri looked upset as well. "And dare take The Holy Name in vain so easily?" he said.

Byleth looked at them both, feeling the tilting motion inside of her when she had said something that angered people. She vainly tried to explain. "But I'm saying I don't have to believe in the Goddess. She's real. She exists." The three nobles stared at Byleth, all mute for once. Byleth felt her frustration with her own words grow, and she looked around herself for inspiration. "See that tree?" she said, pointing at the large green oak in the village square as they were walking past. "I just look at it and I know it's there. It's not like I have to believe in it so that it’s real. And when we walk past it, I don't think it goes away just because I can't see it anymore."

Claude was the first to understand. With a sly smile he said, "And you wouldn't ask it to help you, or save you, or talk with you, because it's a tree. That's not what a tree does. But you could use it to help yourself."

"Right," said Byleth with a grateful nod. She wanted to tell them more, to share her dreams with people of her age who had already accepted her and might understand. But she didn't want to alienate these young nobles away from her, whose company she was starting to enjoy.

"Have you seen the Goddess with your own eyes then?" said Edelgard scathingly, her pale hair flashing in the sun. "Just because you have your delusions doesn't mean that they're real." She stomped ahead quickly, ignoring the calls of her chasing escort, who raced to catch up.

Dimitri looked at Byleth uncertainty. "I cannot agree with everything you say, Lady Byleth, but you do have an interesting perspective. Please excuse Edelgard's behavior. It is most out of character for her," he said, then quickly moved with his escort to attend the Imperial Princess.

Claude sidled closer to Byleth as they continued walking, glancing her way but staying silent. Byleth was grateful for that, because she was unsure of what had just happened with Edelgard...or what was happening to herself. She felt like she hurt somewhere but without physical contact, and she reviewed what how the conversation with Edelgard played out over and over again, her fingers clenching and relaxing as if they weren’t connected to her. She felt cold and hot at the same time, which was the oddest sensation, and soon she was mentally berating herself for ever even thinking about Sothis...

"Congratulations, Miss Jeralt," Claude said easily, distracting her from her whirling thoughts. "You've just won your very first Imperial Princess put-down. I wouldn't worry about it too much. She hands out like twenty or so to me every day."

"It's not that," said Byleth with an effort. Claude pulled a face on her, and Byleth recognized it from Trips, Zarad, and her Dad. Byleth blew out a breath and allowed, "Ok, I guess it is that. But it's also...I'm not sure that she's wrong," she said softly.

Claude's tan face softened. "Hey, don't worry about that, either. I literally just met you yesterday, but as far as I can tell--and I can tell a lot--I think you're a good person surrounded by other good people. So what if you've got quirks or a troubled past?" Claude discreetly pointed to where Dimitri and Edelgard were speaking curtly, twenty paces ahead of them. "That's what they focus on. They focus on the darkness of the world and let it get them down."

Byleth nodded thoughtfully as she walked. "They've focused on the darkness so much that they can't see the light." She glanced at Claude. "Even if it might be standing right next to them."

Claude grinned and said "Aww, Miss Jeralt, was that a compliment? You know what, I'll gladly take it. One from you makes up for the twenty put-downs I had to endure earlier today."

Byleth turned her mouth up at an angle. "Now you're just getting a big head. But you know what I mean."

They walked forward for a while in an easy silence, and were slow to realize that Dimitri was once among them.

Claude’s face was serious as he instantly asked, "What happened?"

Dimitri frowned and shook his blonde head. "I regret to say I may have pressed her too harshly. Edelgard has changed since I last met her." Claude shifted restlessly at that, but surprisingly he held his tongue. Dimitri's clear blue eyes sought out both Byleth's and Claude's. "But do know that her pain comes from a very deep and genuine place. This I know for a fact."

Byleth felt something crystallize in her mind, a certainty she had no logic for. "Then she shouldn't be alone," she told Dimitri, and increased her pace, ignoring the protest it caused in her sword arm. Dimitri made to follow, but Claude grabbed the royal cape. Dimitri glared back at him in annoyance, to which Claude only gave an ingratiating smile and said, "Please wait, your Princeness. Let's see how this plays out. It couldn't hurt, right?" Dimitri tugged his cape free from Claude's grasp, but he nodded brusquely as they looked ahead. 

Byleth trotted up to Edelgard's side, her arm aching and her breath short as if she had run for miles. She addressed Eldergard's conspicuous shadow, the tall gleaming Knight of Seiros walking bare inches behind his charge. "I want to escort the Princess the rest of the way to Garreg Mach monastery. May I relieve you?" she demanded. Edelgard ignored her as she kept walking forward.

The silver helmet turned to face her. Byleth briefly wondered how they could breathe and stay cool under such heavy armor during a long march. Probably magic, she thought with a sour note. Aside from Trips' healing and other useful cantrips, nothing magic had eased her discomfort during the year-long campaigns with her father. The Knight's voice was an echoing rumble. "Lady Catherine has charged me to escort her Imperial Highness to Garreg Mach. I will not be forsworn in my duty, mercenary."

Byleth gathered her will and focus. It was time to try to act like Trips. She said more loudly, "I am Byleth, daughter of Jeralt the Blade-Breaker. We are now sworn to the Knights of Seiros. Knight Shamir told me I could have the honor of escorting the Princess once we were close enough to the monastery, and you could follow at a _respectful_ distance." Byleth stared at the Knight with a poker face as she could almost see the Knight sweat under his plate armor. "Now, unless you wish to countermand her orders-?"

The Knight stood at attention. "Ah, Lady Shamir said that? Then I most deeply apologize, Lady Byleth. I am relieved," he said quickly, and his armor clicked in a fast pattern as he retreated behind Edelgard and Byleth walk near Dimitri and Claude, thirty paces behind.

Byleth walked slowly beside Edelgard, but the princess gave no indication of her existence, her pale face facing forward. They were rounding the last bend and hill to Garreg Mach, with the road becoming more defined with wagon ruts, with the thatched farming huts changing into slate roofed buildings as they passed high stone barbicans and entered Garreg Mach town. The column of Knights was losing formation as individual warriors paused to greet friends, family, and lovers on their way back to the barracks in the monastery.

As they rounded the last bend in a wide stone cobbled street filled with two or three story buildings, which Byleth had never seen before, they came to a broad avenue which clearly illuminated their destination. Byleth lost control for an instant and gave a small gasp at the amazing sight. Garreg Mach loomed up impossibly on a sheer cliff face of a mountain before them, its walls gleaming with pure granite and the Cathedral and Goddess Tower soaring even higher skyward above it, white arms stabbing towards heaven. Automatically Byleth noted and appreciated the defensive design of such a structure, seeing that while Garreg Mach might be a monastery in name, in truth it was a fortress that would exact a terrible price from any attacking army, with high walls and extensive gates and barbicans. Byleth tried to catch Edelgard's eye to talk to her and share in this moment, but the Imperial Princess refused to acknowledge it, even as villagers swarmed out to crowd the company. Byleth was forced to put a hand on her sword, uncomfortably sheathed at her right hip, to force rude gawkers back from the exotic Imperial princess. Despite her right arm being in a sling, it made a fair enough impression that people avoided them.

Catherine eventually called for a brief halt in the column to account for the commotion. The sun was low on the horizon, and the welcome of the Knights and students returning home safely made the scene bucolic. Black uniformed cadets and white robed priests streamed forward from the monastery gates itself, to greet the safe arrival of the House Leaders, missing in action for two days. At the rear of the troop, Zarad was overwhelmed by requests from the mercenaries, and so gave permission for the company to break ranks and join the crowd, where many of them moved to greet women or men they found interesting.

The halt of the column and social chaos gave Byleth the chance she had wanted. Looking quickly around her, she told Edelgard, "Come with me," and to the Imperial astonishment, Edelgard’s hand was grabbed as the mercenary took her away from the crowd to behind an ornamental tree on the wide central street, that hid a small alley between building walls filled with garbage and barrels.

As Byleth moved Edelgard into the shadows, the Imperial Princess whirled on her and announced hotly, "You do have some nerve, mercenary, for an ignorant Goddess-fool. I can--"

"Your Imperial Highness, please excuse me," Byleth said while stepping away, holding up her left hand, but then she faltered. She looked down, feeling exhausted without fatigue, and managed to speak. "I just wanted to talk to you alone. And to apologize for offending you."

Edelgard's face lost some of its marble composure. The younger woman sighed as she visibly calmed herself. "No, it is I who should apologize. I should accept that not everyone will feel the way I do, and respect differences of opinion. After all, you did save my life, but I let the emotion of my memories get the better of me."

Byleth studied the younger and shorter noblewoman, noting similarities in her movements to ways her father had acted over the years, especially when Byleth had asked about her birth mother. Hazarding a guess, she said to Edelgard, "Those memories sound...very painful, Your Imperial Highness. I'm sorry if I accidently brought them up to you."

The Imperial Princess shook her head quickly, too quickly. "You are kind to say so, mer--Byleth," she amended. "For the most part I have made my peace with them, and made something new from it. But if it will ease your mind, I accept your apology."

"Thank you," Byleth said, bowing awkwardly. Edelgard appeared ready to rejoin the crowd, and Byleth longed to make this moment and memory last, and to create more. Just as the pale silver head began turning, Byleth felt the words rush out of her. "I would like to claim that reward you mentioned, Your Imperial Highness."

Edelgard glanced at her side-eyed. "What? Oh yes, I did say something about that, didn't I?" she exclaimed. "I'm afraid I don't have any gold on me at the moment, but once I talk to my retainer Hubert, I could arrange for an appropriate fee--"

Byleth felt her head shake, knowing Zarad and her father, as well as Trips, would howl when they found out about the lost amount of gold--potentially thousands. But she forced herself to interrupt her social better. "I don't want gold!" Seeing Edelgard's eyes widen in shock, Byleth added quickly, "Or land, or title, or whatever. I mean...maybe my father would. I don’t know. But I just...want to talk to you more. Like this." Blyeth waved around vaguely the alley of rotting garbage, indicating the two of them.

Edelgard quickly lifted one white brow. "You want to drag me alone with you into more filthy places?"

"Yes! Uh, I mean no!" yelped out Byleth, and felt a brief stab of exquisite torture at Edelgard's amused smile at her expense. She stammered to finish her thought, feeling herself sweat. "It's just that...learning more about you...I...would like to be your friend." The Imperial jaw went slack as Edelgard was struck speechless by the request. Byleth saw her reaction and felt like everything around her was ten times heavier as she hung her head. "I'm sorry. It's stupid. I'm stupid. It's not practical. Please forgive me, Your Imperial Highness, for my rudeness," she apologized, bowing again quickly.

"No, I will not," Edelgard said after a moment. Byleth felt like the ground could swallow her whole, but then Edelgard tilted her head and smiled. “There is nothing to forgive. Indeed, I am a bit flattered. I have many acquaintances, rivals, and classmates, but not many...friends.” She scrutinized Byleth further, her smile fading a bit. “You are a strange mercenary, to ask for so little from royalty.”

Looking up at Edelgard, Byleth shrugged stiffly, not wanting to examine how she had saved Edelgard too closely. “I’ve been told I’m strange my entire life. But it was my choice to save you. Asking for gold after that just feels cheap.”

Edelgard’s smile returned brilliantly. “I see the material holds little interest for you. We share that much in common.”

Byleth nodded, feeling somewhat lighter. “That’s true. You don’t seem like a Princess to me. I mean, you still talk like a noble, but you just seem like...a fighter. A soldier.” She stammered as her brain caught up with her mouth. “I’m s-sorry, Your--”

“Again, there is no need. In fact, I know a genuine compliment when I hear one,” interrupted Edelgard, looking speculatively at her. She nodded once, as if reaching some inner decision and continued, “Yes, we may become friends...Byleth.” Byleth straightened at the sound of her name on Edelgard’s lips, and Edelgard smiled widely as she stepped closer. “I would be grateful to dispense with the formality. The bowing and titles do get rather tiresome, and we all strive to be equals in Garreg Mach, a notion that I commend. Let us go and return to the others," said the Princess. She reached down and clasped Byleth’s left hand with her right white glove, and Byleth tensed but accepted the grip. “I want everyone in my House to meet my new mercenary friend, and tell them the story of how you saved my life.”

Her large calloused hand feeling awkward in the soft firm grip of a Princess, Byleth felt much lighter as she smiled at her new friend, her first in years. "Thank you...Edelgard," she said, the name coming easily to her lips. As they walked from the alley, Byleth felt like the world was expanding and contracting all at once, but also felt an ease and comfort and rightness that she could not explain. Wondering at these strange feelings in her body, wanting to express them, she said quickly, "I guess now I can tell you the real reason for my request."

The fingers touching Byleth's hand clenched briefly. "And what is that?" asked Edelgard neutrally.

Byleth didn't look at Edelgard, but her friend noted the small smile on her mouth. "Now that I'm friends with the Imperial Princess, I don't have to bow to any other nobles. If anything, they should be bowing to _me_."

Edelgard could not help but laugh as they emerged into the sunlight.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah handholding. Such a platonic trope, with such platonic implications. Forgive me, but let us assume it is a more innocent time in a medieval/Renaissance era.
> 
> I've got a lot more, but I'll let people absorb this for a while.


	7. The Three Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m tough, I’m ambitious, and I know exactly what I want. If that makes me a bitch, okay.” 
> 
> ― Madonna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to do everyone justice, I promise.

Ch 7 

Introduction to the Three Houses

Claude laughed, then wheezed, as he was enveloped in a bear hug by Raphael inside the gates of Garreg Mach. “Claude! I thought those bandits had gotten you!” the big blonde man sniffed, easily hefting Claude off the ground.

“Considering the fact that he’s here, I think it’s safe to say he’s alive Raphael. Although he might not be for much longer if you don’t put him down,” said the piping voice behind the giant. Claude wholeheartedly agreed but could not find his breath as he was squeezed.

“That’s enough, you big goof! The rest of us were worried too!” said another voice. A hand whacked Raphael’s head and he dropped his gasping House Leader to the ground, still beaming and giving no indication he felt the blow as he stepped aside. Lysithea, Lorenz, and Leonie stepped into view, with Leonie rubbing her hand while glaring at the oblivious Raphael. Lorenz sniffed into his omnipresent floral adornment on his chest, as if he sensed something foul.

“Ah, Claude. Somehow you have miraculously survived tremendous odds. I suppose I should commend you for your survival prowess,” the Gloucester nobleman commented disdainfully, his right hand limply hanging in the air. The foolish man somehow thought that was fashionable.

“If you let Raphael hug me again, forget about the surviving,” winced Claude, rubbing his ribs. Raphael blushed and muttered a quick apology. “But sadly, Lorenz, this time I can’t take all the credit. We mainly survived due to pure luck. The Prince and Princess and I met some kind people in Remire village that helped us and routed the bandits.”

“I assume you’re speaking of those uncouth rowdies who have traveled with you? They must have come along hoping for some reward from the Church,” Lorenz sniffed again.

“C’mon, Lorenz, it is appropriate of mercenaries to expect something in return for saving a noble’s life, right?” said Leonie, elbowing the nobleman in the side. He looked horrified at the contact as she blithely continued. “You must be the luckiest nobles in Fodlan, Claude, to find a company of them while being chased by bandits. Do you know which group it is? Captain Jeralt told me about some of them in the Empire when he was training me. There’s Marcus’ Dogs, the Crimson Eagles, the Golden Company…”

“Oh,” grinned Claude suddenly, his face shining. “Oh wow. Yeah, I know who it is, Leonie, but you’ve guessed wrong so far. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

“What, really? Darn it, let me think…”

“You really ought to stay closer to me from now on, Claude,” said Lysithea seriously, eyeing him from under her white bangs...but then again, she was always serious. “If you had run towards us instead of the woods, you probably wouldn’t have ended up in such a mess in the first place.”

“I will admit I panicked a bit,” smiled Claude easily. “Especially when I saw our Professor running in the opposite direction. That’s the sort of thing that can make you lose some morale. Whatever happened to him, anyway?”

His fellow students made various noises and comments of disgust. “He still hasn’t shown back up to the monastery,” sneered Lysithea, folding her arms. “I think it’s safe to say he’s a complete coward. I always suspected he was weak and ill-suited for such a responsible position. Frankly, it doesn’t speak well for the Academy as a whole.”

“No, it doesn’t,” mused Claude thoughtfully, his green eyes far away. He quickly returned his attention to his younger classmate and smirked. “You cute little sweetheart, I think you might be right. So fine, I guess I’ll rely on my youngest, fairest, and most capable classmate for my protection. It’s a big responsibility for such a little girl, but I will trust you with my safety.” He bowed elaborately.

“Ugh,” exclaimed Lysithea, waving a pale hand as if there was an odor. “This is your sad attempt at flirting, isn’t it? Now I see what Hilda has to deal with from you.”

“Speaking of our pink princess, where is she? Do I really stink that bad?” asked Claude, looking around the crowd of milling students and Knights. He smiled again as he saw Jeralt and his officers stride by an oblivious Leonie with Catherine and Shamir. The older teen was still lost in thought.

“You do, Claude, but Lady Goneril and Mr. Victor are currently attending Lady Marianne in her room,” said Lorenz with some smugness, sniffing his decorative flower again. “The poor creature has been in shock ever since you went missing, and was utterly convinced she was to blame for your misfortune, although I really cannot understand the reason why.”

Leonie roused herself and snorted again, this time in annoyance. “She’s always looking for an excuse to be sad, and conveniently she found one. I don’t understand her at all…”

“Hey now Leonie, that’s unfair! Marianne was just sad her Professor and Claude went missing. She’s just so nice she was worried about them! That’s plenty reason to be upset,” protested Raphael indignantly.

“I think there’s more to it than that, Raphael,” frowned Lysithea, her small face scrunched up in concentration. She looked back at Claude. “Despite your attitude, Claude, I really am glad you’re OK. Maybe this will teach you a lesson...if you even bother to take the time to learn it.”

“Oh, I definitely learned a lot of things on this trip,” said Claude with an easy smile to Lysithea, but let his eyes scan the crowd once more. After a pause, he saw a flash of blue hair and white hair. Focusing some more, he also saw the hands. Oh boy. Claude cursed himself at letting his curiosity again get the better of himself. He was going to see how that plays out all right....to see Edelgard swoop in and take advantage of him. He could only hope to head it off somewhat, and adopted a bright tone and posture. “Follow me, gang. I’d like to personally introduce you to one of the mercenary officers who saved me. She’s about our age...except for Lysithea, of course.”

The short albino student glared at him. “Claude…” she growled like a lion cub, which only made her appear cuter.

“I kid, I kid…kid,” Claude winked behind his shoulder, as the rest of the class followed him.

“CLAUDE!”

*

Byleth let Edelgard lead her through the crowd, interested in meeting her fellow classmates...classmates she might belong to as well. Byleth felt strange at the prospect, wondering why she felt so agitated, when it wasn’t battle time. She twisted her body as best she could through the press of people at the monastery gates, hissing slightly when her right arm was jostled. It still hurt when pressure touched it.

Edelgard had heard her. “I am so sorry, Byleth. I hope I am not making your injury worse,” she said while glancing back at her. “They should be not much farther...I think...there he is!”

The Imperial Princess led her down stone walled alley, where Byleth instantly detected the odor of a fish market. Along the stalls and docks, there was an engineered inlet from a tributary of the Airmud River walled inside the monastery itself. Byleth gawked further at the water locks and dams she saw in the dimly fading light in the distance that allowed such a small port to exist in the first place. “This is...incredible…”

Edelgard slowed somewhat, following Byleth’s gaze. “Hm? Oh yes, the Water Tower and docks to the river. It is quite elaborate, isn’t it? Something like this could only have been fashioned by magic. It was said to have been built by Saint Indech shortly before he died after the War of Heroes. Perhaps later, we may tour the monastery. For now, allow me to introduce you to the Black Eagle House.” Byleth obediently followed her new friend to a gaggle of dark-uniformed students nearby, with a tall black-haired young man at the forefront. She felt a brief tug on her left hand, and noticed Edelgard impatiently leaning up, clearly wanting to say something to her. Byleth lowered her head to allow Edelgard to whisper to her. “Most of my classmates are part of the nobility; despite your amusing words earlier, it might be best for you to be formal.” As she nodded her understanding, Byleth absently noted she liked Edelgard whispering to her.

She had barely absorbed the comment when they suddenly stopped before the group. The youth with the dark hair--styled over one eye to hang down over his face--stepped forward shortly and bowed to the Imperial Princess. “Lady Edelgard. We are most grateful for your safe return...along with Prince Dimitri and Lord Claude, I suppose,” he said. His left eye settled on Byleth, who stared back at him in return. He looked the part of a noble fop, but Byleth decided that that itself was a ploy. The man almost radiated menace, despite being unarmed. A mage of some sort, then... 

Edelgard dropped Byleth’s hand and stepped forward as well. “Thank you, Hubert. And thanks to the rest of my loyal classmates, for waiting so patiently for me. I am sorry to have concerned you. You are most likely curious as to my company. Allow me to introduce to you Byleth Eisner, a most capable mercenary from Remire Village. She personally intervened to save my life when it was in danger.”

The stares of the young class settled on her. Byleth bowed as formally as she could with her arm compromised, as Trips had so painstakingly taught her. “It is an honor to meet you, my Ladies. My Lords.” She paused ungraciously as she tried to think of an appropriate comment. “Lady Edelgard...is too free with her praise,” she finally said, feeling warm despite the sun setting.

“Well, that’s enough bowing and scraping, don’t you think, Edie?” said a tall brunette in a black cap, with a voice to match her beautiful features, stepping from the group. She frankly appraised Byleth. “My, my, don’t you look...valiant. You must be quite strong to be so familiar with our House Leader. I’m Dorothea Arnault, the Mystical Songstress.”

Trying hard not to stupidly stare at the young beauty, Byleth stammered, “Songstress? You used to sing for a living?”

“Ha!” barked a blue haired short teen as Dorothea paused in shock. “She’s got you there, Dorothea! I told you you’re not as famous as you think you are! Hey, nice to meet you, Byleth! I’m Caspar Berglitz. No Lord title for me, ‘cause I don’t need one! Maybe we can train together sometime!”

“Perhaps...Caspar,” said Byleth, struggling to remember his name in the midst of his loud chatter. “My company is joining the Knight Auxiliaries…”

“How fortuitous,” said Hubert slowly. “Yes, that is exactly what the poor Church needs at this moment. I am Hubert von Vestra, Miss Eisner. Please accept my thanks for ensuring Lady Edelgard’s safety in my place.” He bowed to her.

Byleth decided it was safer to be more formal with Hubert. “No thanks needed, Lord Vestra,” she said as she bowed again to tall nobleman. “It’s an honor to simply know Her Imperial Highness.” He seemed pleased at that comment.

An earnest redhaired youth stepped before her, gently grasping her left hand and lowering his face as if he was kissing her fingers, but not quite before gracefully releasing it. “Lady Byleth, it is clear by your diction and training you are more than a simple mercenary. Only a noble could carry herself with such ease, as well as have the strength and training to save our defenseless future Emperor. I am Ferdinand von Aegir, son of Prime Minister Duke Aegir of the Empire. I do hope we can become more acquainted,” he said, his face shining and sincere. 

“Ah...thank you, my Lord,” said Byleth, disarmed by his direct attention. She noted Edelgard and Hubert rolling their eyes as she said, “I’m afraid I’m just of common birth, but I guess you could blame my stepmother for my manners. She insisted that I learn how to deal with nobles.” Byleth mentally kicked herself for that comment as soon as it left her mouth.

“You must have an extremely wise stepmother, since so many nobles do need to be dealt with,” yawned a young man with hair the color of grass behind Ferdinand. “I’m Linhardt. A pleasure and such and thank you. Now, good night, I’m off to bed,” said the drowsy teen, as he rudely turned his back and started to wander off.

“Oh, no you don’t,” yelled the youth named Caspar, running back to grab Linhardt’s arm. He sighed and said, “Fine…”

“Please allow a chance for others to introduce themselves, Ferdinand,” said Edelgard with a touch of acerbity. “It is only proper.”

Ferdinand looked disdainful in reply but stepped aside to wave a hand at the remaining Black Eagles, and after a moment, so did an annoyed Dorothea. Two violet haired girls presented themselves before Byleth, with the smaller one hiding behind a fit girl with dark skin and brightly colored tattoos on her face, a stark contrast to her military uniform. She bowed deeply with her right hand on her heart and said, “I am Petra, Princess of Brigid and guest of the Empire. I am pleased to be the introduction to you. Ah, Miss Eisner. Yes, I thank you dearly for saving Lady Edelgard.”

Byleth felt her hard-rehearsed smile come easily to her lips. Petra was obviously a foreigner, and her stilted speech reminded her of how Zarad had spoken when she was a child. She bowed in return with her left hand on her heart to the foreign Princess, unfamiliar with the gesture but knowing it must be important to the girl. “Your Highness, you honor me with your praise. I’ve never met anyone from Brigid before, but I have heard stories of their mighty ships and their deep forests. I’d like to learn more about you and your country.”

“You delight me, Miss Eisner! We will speak again in the future,” smiled Petra, bowing again. She moved aside for the last member of the Black Eagle House to introduce themselves. A small, meek girl with purple bangs that tried to hide her face. When she saw she had no choice to step forward, she trembled before Byleth, like a rabbit in a snare.

“Uhm...hi,” she finally quavered.

“Hi,” said Byleth, confused. She waited patiently for the student to introduce herself.

A pause that stretched loud and long, while many of the other students sighed or folded their arms.

The girl flinched at the steady regard from Edelgard and Hubert. She turned back to Byleth and gasped and swallowed, then said, “Um...my name is Bernadetta von Varley. It’s uh, I mean ...I'm sorry!...uhhh, it’s nice to meet you!” The last was said in a panicked rush.

“Oh!” said Byleth, surprised. This was the supposedly crippled Crest child of House Varley, that Mayor Millson and others in Remire village dolefully mourned about? She seemed fine to Byleth, who bowed to the short noblewoman and said, “Lady Bernadetta, it’s nice to meet you as well. Remire village is in Varley territory, you know.”

Bernadetta paled at that. “Oh no! Oh no oh no, you’re one of my father’s agents, aren’t you? Well I’m fine, and he just needs to...stay away! I don’t want to see him...or you! But ...oh no, I’ve revealed too much!...I'm sorry, I’m such a worthless failure!” she wailed, as she turned and bolted. “Don’t tell my faaaaaatheeeerrrrr!” she screamed as she ran away out of sight, flying up a set of stairs.

Byleth stayed stock still throughout the drama, but slowly turned to Edelgard. “I’m sorry, did I do something—?”

“No, Byleth,” said the Princess, shaking her head sorrowfully. “Bernadetta is...difficult. She is extremely talented, but is...an unfortunate product of her upbringing. I have been trying to work with her to lessen her fear of others, but it is an uphill battle.”

“I have bonded with Bernie over archery,” said Petra firmly, glancing behind her. “We have become great friends. May I have the leave, Lady Edelgard, to attend her? She needs the friendship at the moment.”

Edelgard nodded her acquiescence. “Perhaps that would be best, Petra. Thank you for your hard work concerning her.”

“Tell her I’m sorry, Your Highness. It wasn’t my intention to frighten her and I would like to speak with her again,” said Byleth, feeling somewhat responsible for Bernadetta’s reaction. The smiling Brigid Princess nodded and bowed again, then left in the same direction as Bernadetta.

“Such a kind woman,” murmured Dorothea appreciatively at Byleth, casting a teasing glance at Edelgard. “Now Edie, do confess. Did she really save you or is that just a story to try to keep her all to yourself?”

“Absolutely not!” said Edelgard forcefully, her pale skin doing a poor job of hiding her blush. “Byleth almost died trying to save me from the bandit leader, a villain called Kostas. She disarmed him just as he was about to attack, with her sword in her weak hand.”

“Whoa! You can fight with your left hand?! You must be ambi-dextroyous!” whistled Caspar in appreciation.

“Byleth...Eisner...that last name does sound familiar, but I cannot place it,” said Ferdinand, eyeing Byleth with interest. Between his consideration and Dorothea’s candid study and Hubert’s unblinking regard, Byleth was starting to feel like a farm animal before it was butchered. “My father is Jeralt Eisner,” she said simply, hoping these noble students wouldn’t recognize the name.

“Ah,” said Hubert with satisfaction, looking at his liege. “Then the recent events are beginning to make a great deal of sense.”

“Wait...Jeralt the Blade-Breaker? The renowned mercenary?” said Ferdinand, looking between Hubert and Edelgard. “I believe my father has mentioned him before! He is reportedly without peer.”

“As well he should be,” muttered Linhardt without interest. “Since in all likelihood he is the same person as Jeralt Reus, who was Captain of the Knights of Seiros for almost fifty years, before his reported death in Year 1159.” He yawned cavernously as everyone stared at him.

“I don’t think my father is eighty years old,” said Byleth without courtesy, not liking the commentary about her family. “He could probably take down anyone in this monastery. I still can’t beat him in a serious sparring match.”

Hubert regarded her with a abrupt keen interest. He bowed like a butler and said, “Well, then...Lady Byleth. Perhaps you are famished from your march on the road? It is time for students to attend the dining hall for the evening meal, and you presently appear to be at liberty.”

Byleth suddenly felt unsure, thinking of a dozen good reasons for her to decline the invitation. “Ah...perhaps I should do that, later, my Lords…”

A chorus of protests immediately overrode her, and before she could raise another objection, she found herself hustled up the stairs to the dining hall with the Black Eagle House.

*

After relieving himself of his burdensome formal Knightly escort, Dimitri strode eagerly back into Garreg Mach monastery, smiling briefly as he passed Claude laughing and talking with his class of fellow Golden Deer in the inner gate. The mystery nobleman from House Riegan acted the part of wastrel and truant, but Dimtri could sense a genuine heart beneath the fellow noble’s ceaseless teasing. Dimitri admitted to himself that he both admired and deplored Claude’s candor at times, and wished he could effortlessly chat with Lady Byleth with the same ease as did his rival House Leader. Such a strange woman, Dimitri mused on a tangent. She had a hidden magnetism to her, and Dimitri had noticed that each of them--Edelgard, Claude, and himself--had fallen for it on the march back to the monastery. Something about her unassuming yet approachable nature, her blunt forwardness but coupled with surprising depth...made her seem accepting. Of everyone. Or anyone. A strangely naive and innocent attitude for a mercenary, who generally were guarded and cautious with nobility, not to mention rigidly focused on payment.

The Gatekeeper nodded to Dimitri with a wide smile and opened the entry hall doors with his fellow guardsman. Blinking as he entered the dim hall from the slowly fading sunlight, Dimitri grinned inside to see his friends and classmates gathered and waiting for him, along with Professor Hanneman. Ingrid, Sylvain, and Dedue were at the forefront, with Ashe, Annette, and Mercedes standing behind them. A quick glance to the walls confirmed the presence of Felix, glaring at him from the shadows. The Professor immediately rushed forward and bowed hastily.

“Prince Dimitri! I am delighted that you are safe and sound, and even more delighted to hear the others are safe as well. All of the Blue Lion House was deeply concerned for their Prince,” said the Professor, his gaze inquisitive. Dimitri’s smile became a bit strained. The Professor was probably only interested in hearing about him in battle, and an excuse to pester him for a “blood sample.”

“Thank you, Professor Hanneman,” he said with a nod, stepping past the man, feeling his smile return as he looked to his class. “And thanks to my classmates, as well. I apologize for worrying you, but as you can see, we are all well after this adventure, thanks to the villagers of Remire and an honorable company of mercenaries.”

Sylvain stepped forward and clapped a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “You gave us quite the scare there, Your Highness. Why did you chase after Edelgard and Claude anyway? Don’t tell me you fancy the Princess?” he said with a roguish smile.

“I was only intending to provide assistance to my fellow students on the battlefield,” Dimitri said frostily in response to Sylvain’s innuendo, but accepted the man’s familiar hug anyway. The heir of House Gautier was a true friend, despite his...habits. Sylvain stepped aside to make room as Dedue lowered his massive frame in a bow before the Prince. “Your Highness, I am pleased beyond words to see you are well.”

“Then no words are necessary, are they?” smiled Dimitri, bowing in return to his friend’s sensitivity regarding decorum. Dedue’s stern face showed a fleeting smile as he stepped aside, revealing Ingrid bowing before her Prince, with a frowning Felix scowling at him with his arms folded behind her.

“Your Highness, please regard your own safety first before plunging recklessly ahead. It’s hard for us to protect you when you do things like this,” Ingrid said with genuine concern under her blonde bangs. Dimitri smiled and was about to respond when Felix rudely cut in.

“Don’t excuse the boar’s behavior any more than you have to,” the heir to House Fraldarius said dismissively, his face set in sharp lines. “He just saw an opportunity to satiate his bloodlust. How many men screamed for mercy at you this time, Your Rabidness?”

The entire Blue Lion House erupted in protest, with both Dedue and Ingrid taking threatening steps towards Felix before glaring at each other. Professor Hanneman quickly interposed himself between the cadets and said sternly, “Felix, if you cannot speak courteously to your House Leader...not to mention your future King...perhaps it would be best to absent yourself for the remainder of the evening.”

“He’s no King of mine. I’m done here anyway,” Felix sneered and promptly turned his back on the rest of his class, walking away without looking back.

Ingrid and Sylvain were both trying to apologize for Felix. “Damn it, Your Highness, I really thought he was getting better. He was actually worried, you know. He’s hardly trained at all in the past few days and just sat alone in his room outside of classes,” said Sylvain, his handsome face showing regret.

“I thought so too,” said Ingrid, glaring at the direction Felix had gone. “But he’s still an ass who doesn’t know how to deal with himself. I just wish he wouldn’t take it out on you, Your Highness.”

Dimitri surprised them by giving a light hearted chuckle. “Felix is just trying to be like his brother. In that, at least, he’s succeeding.” He regretted the comment as soon as he saw the masked pain on Ingrid’s face, but in that instant Annette, Ashe, and Mercedes presented themselves before Dimitri.

“Don’t let Lord Frown-darius upset you, Your Highness! I’m already working with some other girls to get back at him somehow for being such a meanie. Um, what I really meant to say is--” blurted Lady Annette.

“Oh, Annie, don’t focus on that! Prince Dimitri, we’re so glad you’re safe. We wanted to honor your safe return, and we tried to whip something up on short notice, but--” said a smiling Mercedes.

“There was a commotion in the kitchen,” commented Dedue shortly, folding his massive arms and looking with disappointment at the other students.

“Ah, not to worry Dedue, we’ve cleaned it up...most of it. It will take some time to scrub down the ceilings, I’ll grant you, but once we find some ladders...or maybe just some ropes…” protested Ashe, blushing behind his freckles. The short silver haired boy looked sheepish with Mercedes and Annette chattering an explanation as Dimitri looked on in bemusement.

“Lady Annette, we’ve discussed this,” sighed Professor Hanneman. “You must do your utmost not to let your Crest activate while cooking meals.”

“There were only two explosions,” pouted Annette, her pigtails bobbing as she stamped a foot.

“Two?” smiled Dimitri in wry amusement.

“Um, in any case, Your Highness, we did finally manage to bake you a treat in the kitchen,” stammered Ashe earnestly. “We asked Lady Ingrid and Lord Sylvain what you might appreciate, and they mentioned some of your favorite childhood desserts….”

Dimitri could not help but broadly smile at the antics of his class, which Sylvain immediately noticed. “Well, now, your Highness, that’s a grin I remember well. Hungry from your march? There’s only a slight chance that Mercedes and Annette’s dessert will explode in your face. I think it’s well worth the risk,” he winked.

“Thank you my friends. That sounds delightful,” said the Faerghus Prince, feeling at ease for the first time...in a long time. After the long chase, the quick and brutal battle...he could admit he missed them. The continual chatter and laughter surrounding him made his burdens easier to ignore, and he was determined to maintain this feeling for as long as he could as they made their way to the dining hall.

He felt Ingrid bump into him as they were walking, the rest of the class teasing each other or offering pointers to help Annette’s cooking, over her verbose protests. Dimitri glanced down to his blonde friend to see her...focusing on him, but not quite frowning. “You’re not really interested in the Princess, are you? The way Sylvain kept going on, he had even me half-convinced,” she told him.

Dimitri tried to maintain his composed face, and only partly succeeded, if Ingrid’s now fully fledged frown was any indication. He sighed and admitted, “I am, but not in the way you might think. It is...a political matter. A sensitive one.”

Ingrid was not a fool. Her emerald eyes narrowed and she nodded. “I can see that. You have my pledge to say nothing more, Prince Dimitri.”

They walked with companionable ease towards the Dining Hall.

*

Byleth felt some gratitude for her condition as Edelgard and Ferdinand competed with each other for the honor of leading her inside the dining hall. It may have seemed spartan and martial to the noble students, but the high backed chairs and long feast tables and fancy, bright lighting marked it the most opulent eating place Byleth had ever seen, easily. The only sign of her awe and unease was her quick glances in every direction, trying to absorb all the sights and sounds, her trained mind noting exits and chokepoints.

Edelgard and Ferdinand were beginning to argue over something called “seating arrangements,” with Hubert and Caspar starting to take sides. Linhardt simply looked bored, but Dorothea walked forward to Byleth with an apologetic smile on her features. “I’m sorry, Bylie...do you mind if I call you Bylie? They’ve done this for the past month, and even I'm starting to get sick of all the drama.”

“Is that where you line up for food?” Byleth nodded to the northwest corner of the grand hall, where students and staff were mingling. The appeared to be a commotion among the staff, with some racing back and forth from the kitchen behind it, along with the faint scent of something burning.

Dorothea smiled at her, easily holding a gaze as she gave a small laugh. “It is indeed. At least you have your priorities straight, Bylie. Let’s go ahead and line up, shall we, while the nobles do their noble thing?”

“I am hungry,” Byleth admitted, realizing she had not eaten since a hasty breakfast back in Remire, her nose tickled by the more enticing scents of cooked and seasoned food. It was the one area where her father was likely to indulge her, since Byleth eyes always lit up at the mention of mealtime, especially if the food was hot. Trips had tried to teach her how to cook in her youth, but Byleth only picked up the rudiments of campfire meals, being too interested in becoming strong and skilled enough with her sword so she could finally ride side by side with her father.

“While we’re waiting patiently, I’m sure you can find it in your heart to tell me why Edie’s so interested in you? She usually doesn’t show up after a battle holding hands with some commoner like ourselves,” bantered Dorothea as they positioned themselves in line.

Byleth suddenly felt like the room was getting stuffy, and forced out her words. “I just helped her in a fight. She’s the one who wanted to make a big deal about it. I think it has to do with my dad somehow,” Blyeth said, shrugging her left shoulder.

“Hmm. Jeralt the Blade-Breaker, is it? I’ve never heard of him, but then again I’ve spent most of my time in Enbarr.”

“What’s Enbarr like?” wondered Byleth, curious. “I’ve never been there.”

“It’s a city that never sleeps,” smiled Dorothea, briefly lost in memories. The smile faded slightly. “In both good and bad ways. There’s grand palaces next to filthy slums where the servants live, long avenues of markets and taverns with sewage and rats running between them and down the alleys. Four story manors and towers with magical torchlight lamps shine constantly, with guards posted around each lamp so that beggars or children can’t huddle near them for warmth.” The last was said with a hint of bitterness.

“And you sang there?” asked Byleth. She had heard people singing in Churches or taverns, or occasionally on marches, but had trouble imagining someone who did nothing but sing for a living.

“Oh yes! Professor Manuela--you’ll meet her later, I’m sure--heard me singing on the streets one day and decided that I had a talent worth cultivating. I was only nine, but I learned to sing my heart out, because I was so grateful to finally have a place to sleep with two square meals a day! The Mittelfrank Opera Company treated me well, although I had to work and compete against other talented students. A few short years later, I was the lead diva of the opera company, and everyone...loved me,” Dorthea said with a wistful smile.

“And everyone still does! Good evening, Dorothea. This must be my lucky day, to share the company of a famous star such as yourself!” interjected a smiling Claude, coming up from behind them. An assortment of students in similar uniforms tinged with gold trim gathered with him.

Dorothea smiled now with a hard edge at Golden Deer House Leader. “Oh, Claude. Take it from someone who knows; your acting lessons need work.” She glanced at Byleth wickedly. “Don’t tell me you saved him personally as well?”

“She didn’t, but the rest of her company did, along with her home village. That’s worth a few introductions and a story, don’t you think?” Claude smiled rakishly. “Byleth, this distracted big guy with the glazed eyes behind me is Raphael. The flame haired archer is Leonie, and standing tall and proud behind me is Lord Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. And last but certainly not least, this is Lady Lysithea von Ordelia.”

Byleth’s arm was aching sorely and she was desperately hungry as she bowed or said her greetings to each, but a glance to her side showed her a determined Edelgard advancing with her own class to her position in line. Too many eyes were on her to think of appropriate conversation in time before Hubert spoke.

“Lord Riegan. You may excuse yourself for the moment. Miss Eisner has already agreed to dine with the Black Eagle House this evening,” said the tall young man in a silky tone.

“You have no real authority here, so your attitude is simply so much posturing,” sniped the short albino girl, Lysithea, trying to stare down the much taller Hubert and failing utterly. Byleth examined the young girl as she spoke, briefly wondering if she was Edelgard’s sister. But no...the features were wrong, she decided. Still, it was odd…

“Claude,” said Edelgard firmly. “Please tell your House respect some social boundaries, as well as Miss Eisner’s wishes--”

Leonie’s eyes were on Byleth the entire time, and she broke in excitedly, stepping forward to the older woman. “Wait? You look nothing like him...but _you’re_ Captain Jeralt’s daughter?! He mentioned you when he was training me back at my village! Claude!” She whirled on her House Leader. “You never told me Jeralt’s Mercenaries was the company that saved you! Is Captain Jeralt Eisner here? I’ve got to see him! Oh, Goddess, I--”

“It looks like someone is a fan,” murmured Dorothea in amusement.

Leonie turned to glare back at Dorothea. “With good reason, since he’s only the strongest and toughest mercenary ever!”

Claude used the interruption to ignore Edelgard. “Miss Jeralt, feel free to sit wherever you’d like during mealtime. Don’t let the Empire bully you, like they do to everyone else in Fodlan.”

“You will not disrespect the Black Eagle House or Adrestian Empire again, Claude von Riegan,” said Ferdinand in a low voice.

“What’s going on here?” announced a resounding baritone. Dimitri had entered the dining hall from the opposite side, and suddenly he was crowding around Byleth with his classmates at his side. Byleth felt trapped by eyes and bodies, feeling the unyielding stone wall at her back. Her arm ached and throbbed along with her skull, knowing that everyone wanted something from her, something she didn’t know how to give...

Past civility, Edelgard snapped at the Prince, “Nothing that concerns you, Prince Dimitri.”

“Wow, so much for the Imperial Princess you tried to save. Wasted effort, I suppose,” laughed a tall redheaded young man.

“You would be the master on that subject, Sylvain,” said Linhardt with a disdainful, disinterested glance.

Claude nodded seriously to Dimitri. “I’m actually glad you’re here, Prince Dimitri. I was just trying to stand up for Lady Byleth here, telling her she can sit anywhere in the dining hall that she wishes. Her Royal Highness Edelgard feels otherwise, I suppose…”

Edelgard’s pale face flushed with anger. “And Claude is completely misrepresenting the situation, and trying to cloud the issue. We were trying to dine this evening after our march with my friend before his rude interruption,” she said with some heat. She glared at Byleth as well, as if the conflict was her fault. Byleth felt only more helpless under that gaze, and she wished that all of these noble children would just leave her alone...

“C’mon, everyone, let’s just get some food! You don’t have to be sitting to eat it,” complained the large man called Raphael.

Dimitri was more focused on what Edelgard had said. “Your friend, Edelgard? Lady Byleth is her own person,” he said severely.

“And we have mercilessly trapped the poor common girl,” said the purple haired Lord Lorenz. “I do believe she’s trembling. We have placed her in a social impasse--”

Dorothea sneered up at him. “Which is the fault of nobles like you. She and I were getting along just fine in line before your House Leader rudely butted in...”

“I’ve got your back, Dorothea!” grinned Caspar as he stepped forward and cracked his knuckles.

A blonde girl among the Blue Lions glared at the short young man. “You are not helping the situation at all, Caspar. Back off.”

“You back off!” he said, raising his voice. Soon all the students were stepping forward and speaking all at once.

“Prince Dimitri--”

“Don’t take that, Claude--”

“Shut up--”

“C’mon, let’s go--”

“Lady Byleth--”

“HELLO!” said a bright and cheery voice, at a volume to silence the rest. A girl with pink hair shorter than Byleth effortlessly wedged herself through the press of students to stand before the mercenary, smiling widely as her pigtails swayed behind her. A pleasant scent accompanied her presence near Byleth’s nostrils, astonished at how the young woman managed such a thing. Her ears, neck, and wrists glittered with shining jewelry. The pretty young woman spoke in an ingratiating tone and said, “Oh my, so nice to meet you! Miss Byleth Eisner, is it? My name is Hilda Valentine Goneril! I’m soooo glad you saved Claude, because he’s a boy that needs saving, quite often! Isn’t that right, Claude?” she said sweetly behind her, not looking at her House Leader.

“Err, well...I mean, not all the time…” muttered Claude, looking sheepish.

Hilda winked a vivid pink eye at Byleth once before she turned to address the other students. “Anyway, let’s all get our dinner now, since Miss Jeralt Eisner’s father is looking for her in the entry hall. She should really obey the orders of her father, and commanding officer, right? Right! One just can’t resist that combination, I’m afraid,” she ended with an eloquent sigh.

Leonie tried to twist around to look behind her. “Captain Jeralt? Where?” Lysithea elbowed her taller, older classmate in the ribs.

Byleth finally found her voice, her desire to find escape overriding her hunger. “I’m sorry, my Lords. And uhm...Ladies. And…” she tried to apologize directly to Edelgard, but words failed her once more. She finally managed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be trouble. Please excuse me. I should go now.” She quickly walked past Hilda, nodding gratefully to the tall Lorenz as he gallantly stepped aside for her to exit the press. She stepped quickly past other students and Knights returning to the dining hall from outside, hoping the crowd formed enough of a barrier, and slipped through the door leading to another high ceilinged room, this one with a grand red carpet running through it.

Looking around briefly, still tense from her experience in the dining hall, she was surprised to see her father actually _was_ in the entry hall at the lower level, along with Trips and Zarad, and Catherine and Shamir and a crowd of Knights of Seiros. Many of the Knights appeared to be old friends or acquaintances of Jeralt, and he was as mobbed as she had been earlier, although he was handling it much better than she just did, laughing and talking with multiple people at once. A brief pang of something...of not liking her father for doing that, somehow...caused her to hang back from the crowd as she stepped down the stairs, trying to hide in the shadows of pillar by a gently flowing fountain that ran down the stone. She stared at the water rippling down the wall, trying to understand what was happening with her thinking and the new people around her. Things had seemed so much simpler just a short time ago when she was on the road with the company or back in Remire Village. She wondered if this was Sothis’ doing…

“Boo,” said a deep voice near her ear.

Byleth jumped then winced in pain as her right arm tried to reach for a sword that was currently buckled under it. Zarad came around the pillar she had been resting against, his dark face apologetic. “Forgive me, Byleth! That was a poor joke to attempt while you are injured. But it is unlike you to be lost in thought.”

Byleth nodded to her tall Almyran friend. “It’s ok, Zarad. I was just thinking, I wish I could do what Dad does,” she said, tilting her head towards her father holding court. He appeared completely in his element, surrounded by former and new comrades and apprentices. Trips was speaking with Catherine and Shamir, who were introducing her stepmother to a tall man with green hair in blue uniformed robes.

“Why is that? Usually you are content to just observe. But now you are,” Zarad smiled and pointed to the ornamental waterfall, “being reflective.”

Byleth tugged the corner of her lip up in response. “Some reflection,” she said, but she suddenly felt fatigued as she tried to explain herself. “I was just up in the dining hall with the noble students.”

“Oh? You already ate? Lucky…”

“No,” said Byleth, shaking her head. “They all wanted to sit with me. They started arguing about it. I was in the middle of it, and...I couldn’t talk. There were too many of them.”

“Ah, I believe I understand. I dislike large crowds myself. It can be hard to follow, and pay attention to many things at once. It is hard to feel safe.”

“I guess that’s part of it,” sighed Byleth. “It was much better when I was talking to the cadets one by one. But why would they care so much who I sit and eat with? If we’re joining the Knights, I can sit with all of them eventually.”

Zarad regarded her solemnly and said, “You will not like my thoughts on the matter.”

“Try me,” Byleth challenged, her face stoic. “At this point I’ll take anything.”

His scarred face grinned. “I believe you are becoming popular.”

“Oh, that’s bad, even for you.”

“I’m serious,” he said, waving a hand up the stairs. “You have rarely had the opportunity to bond with people of your age. You have made a good first impression with the nobles. You couldn’t do that when you were a child in Remire, or travelling with the company. Nobles are always impressed by strong fighters.”

“Half of our company is around my age, Zarad. None of them have treated me like this.”

Zarad laughed at that. “And why would they, when your father is their commander and employer? And Trips is the healer and guards you like a bear with a cub? Or when I could kill them while blindfolded for simply looking at you? The three of us can be scary when we need to be.”

Byleth narrowed her eyes at her tall friend. “And when were all of you going to tell me this?”

“The moment when we thought you could handle it. So, hmmm, that would be...right now,” smiled Zarad broadly. He sighed as his smile faded. “Your father wanted to shelter you. I think he feared others with ah, silver tongues, taking advantage of you. Simply because someone smiles and calls you a friend does not mean they really are one.”

“And who would want to talk to me anyway,” muttered Byleth, looking away.

The Almyran grunted in displeasure at her self-deprecation. “You know that is untrue. We all saw you talking with the noble children during the march, and we were pleased. We did not want to interrupt you, when you were doing so well. If the three future leaders of this land find you interesting, you must be interesting.”

Put that way, Byleth felt herself relaxing somewhat, her tense muscles slowly softening. She stared off into the falling water and nodded for Zarad to continue.

“Tell me, where there any cadets that you met tonight that you wanted to talk to more? Over dinner?”

She nodded again, thinking of the three royal nobles, as well as Petra and Dorothea, or Leonie and Lysithea. “I did. But I couldn’t think of a way to satisfy everyone.”

“It is unfortunate. But you cannot make everyone happy all the time. It takes work and promises and explanations. But speaking something...anything...is better than saying nothing in a group. Or others will speak for you.” Zarad thought for a moment. “If someone talked to you when you asked questions, and explained themselves…you liked them more, did you not?”

Again Byleth thought about her conversations with the three royal nobles on the march, or talking with the approachable Dorothea or listening to the excitable Leonie. “I think so.”

“Then here is what you must do. Return to the dining hall. Your noble friends will still be there. Apologize to the friends who wanted you to dine with them. Explain your dislike of crowds, and promise to see them in the future. Then make your decision. A royal noble who requests to share a meal with you is an honor you should not refuse...less they take offense.”

“The other two might take offense no matter who I choose.” 

Zarad shrugged. “They might. Or they might take the opportunity that you present them. If they truly want to be your friend, they will make the effort as well.”

Her stomach agreed entirely with what Zarad was saying. But still Byleth hesitated, and asked, “Could you...come with me?”

The corporal scratched his bald pate. “I think that is a bad idea. You would appear weak. Some battles must be fought alone, and you do not need me there to wet-nurse you through conversations.”

“What a horrible image.” Byleth felt her lips move entirely on their own. But thinking of conversation as a different sort of battle put her at ease. Already, her mind was intuitively grasping it with strategies, tactics, logistics...

“Aha!” Zarad crowed at her expression. “That was a smile! The spirits have truly blessed me this day!”

*

Edelgard was distracted and was trying her best not to show it. She made polite inquiries, accepted thanks and well-wishes for her safety with ease, and pursued threads of conversation thoughtfully as she dined discreetly between pauses. She focused hard on cooling her rage.

Claude. She would not look in his direction. Or even at his table, where he laughed as if nothing mattered in the world. Of course he knew what he had done. Of course he manipulated the Dolt Prince into doing his bidding. And of course he knew that she knew, and would be looking for a chance to rub it in her face.

And then there was the fact that Hilda and Lorenz had helped him! How could some half-Almyran bastard have the entire Leicester House in his pocket? But it was just a minor, petty victory, like his attempts to get the last word or his penchant for useless mind-games. There was plenty of time to convert Byleth later….

“Oh, my, Edie, look who’s back,” whispered Dorothea next to her.

Edelgard looked up and around, but could not see past the taller students’ heads. Then she heard Byleth’s voice above the din of general conversation in the dining hall.

“What is she doing?” Edelgard asked her retainer, not wanting to twist in her seat to look behind like some mooning schoolgirl.

Hubert could easily see from where he sat across from her. “She looks to be chatting with the Golden Deer House. Claude and Hilda in particular…” he reported flatly. Edelgard’s emotions surged but she kept her mask in place. Hubert then continued, “...and now she is moving on. To speak with Prince Dimitri and the Blue Lions. It appears some informal introductions are being made.”

The other two Black Eagle students approached at that moment. Petra was speaking comfortingly to Bernadetta, who was trembling but willing to leave her room for a quick meal. As they set down their plates, Edelgard impulsively ordered the Brigid Princess, “Petra, is Byleth still about? Please ask her to join us at her convenience.” The girl frowned but nodded as she moved away from her meal to comply. Edelgard steadfastly refused to look at the steady gaze of Hubert.

Even Caspar noticed. “Hey, Edelgard, what’s the big deal about having Byleth eat with us? I mean, it’s nice and all, but she’s still gonna just be a mercenary right?”

“She is the daughter of the most famous mercenary in Fodlan,” Ferdinand replied before Edelgard could open her mouth. “Although she is a commoner, she shares that reputation. And since she was born in Remire…” The young nobleman stopped himself, and turned and said to Edelgard, “That’s it, is it not? She could become a new student for the Black Eagle House!”

“Whoa, really?” gaped Caspar around a mouthful of food.

“Now that is interesting!” said Dorothea appreciatively. “Although doesn’t she need, ah, noble sponsorship?”

“At the risk of stating the completely obvious, Edelgard was a noble the last time I checked,” said Linhardt, stabbing a fork listlessly in his serving of meat.

“Byleth is an interesting person in her own right,” the Princess told the table firmly. “But Ferdinand is correct. I do believe she would be a good fit for the Black Eagles. We are magically talented, or have training with archery--” she glanced over to Bernadetta with her plate of vegetables, who shrank further in her chair, “--but we are short on front line fighters.”

“It appears you may get your wish, Lady Edelgard. Petra and the mercenary are returning even now,” said Hubert. His eyes swept over the other occupants of the table. “Please display appropriate behavior for the Black Eagle House. It is important to our House Leader that we make an impression with Miss Eisner.”

“Um, she’ll need a chair, won’t she? Hang on! I’ll grab one!” said Caspar, leaping up and dashing off.

“Now we just need to make room for her, don’t we Edie?” said Dorothea with an impish glance, scooting her chair away from where she sat next to her House Leader. Edelgard refused to dignify the innuendo with a response. Caspar came back quickly with a chair held high over his head, setting it down with clunk in the tight spot between Dorothea and Edelgard just as Byleth came up with a heaping plate in her left hand.

The mercenary was flustered when invited to sit by Edelgard, but accepted with decent manners. Byleth awkwardly arranged herself in her chair, then nodded to Edelgard and the rest of the table, and said, “I’m sorry, Your Highness, for what happened earlier. I’m not used to crowds or being the center of attention. I hope no one was offended by my actions.”

“Please do not fret, Miss Eisner! It is only natural for a commoner to feel overwhelmed by nobility. No offense is taken by anyone at this table,” said Ferdinand with perfect confidence.

“That’s true, Ferdie. But I feel less and less overwhelmed by you every time you speak,” said Dorothea sweetly. The nobleman smiled brilliantly in response.

“Um....Miss Byleth? You feel scared sometimes by people too?” inquired Bernadetta nervously.

Byleth nodded to the short noblewoman. “I had never talked to a noble before I met Edelgard yesterday. It’s helped me realize nobles are just people too.”

“And that’s precisely the attitude I wish to foster among us,” declared the Imperial Princess, feeling delighted with events and the mercenary--soon to be classmate--by her side. “Byleth may be a commoner, but I owe her my life. My Crest and status meant nothing when I was trapped in an alley with the bandit leader. And what impressed me the most is Byleth told me she wished for no reward in saving me.”

Linhardt yawned, “A mercenary with a heart of gold? That sounds like the beginning of a bad fable…”

“Nonetheless,” said Hubert, his unblinking eyes fixed on Byleth as she ate. “I wish to hear _every_ detail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope our solder-babies are in character enough. As you can tell, we're going slow burn now.


	8. The Will of the Goddess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps:   
> collection of the facts to determine whether   
> injustices are alive,   
> negotiation,   
> self-purification,   
> and direct action.
> 
> \--
> 
> Martin Luther King Jr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave Seteth a title, that of "High Abbot." Sounds vaguely Christiany to me. You may see people referring him to as "Father" or "Lord." Same diff.
> 
> Byleth also had some quality time with the students. This fit well with Rhea's original plan, but here, Byleth makes a different decision.
> 
> Rhea fesses up some to earn Jeralt's trust. But does she fess up all?

Chapter 8

The Will of the Goddess

"No, you may not come. The Archbishop has requested a private interview with Captain Jeralt and his daughter only," said Seteth, the High Abbot of Garreg Mach.

Trips and Zarad both glared at the green haired man. The four mercenaries, representing Captain Jeralt's company, now tentatively the 41st Auxiliary Knights of Seiros, stood in a small antechamber just outside the archbishop's chambers. Jeralt was putting a hand to his head to rub his temples, as if he had a headache, while Byleth stood silently, still overwhelmed by the events of the past two days at Garreg Mach, ever since her dinner with the Black Eagle House. Her mind was spinning like a child's toy. Too many names, faces, and events had passed for her to remember them all in the short time she and her father’s company had been quartered in a barracks near the monastery, but some of them stood out.

Edelgard had been eager to tell her class the story of bandit attack at the dinner after the march, turning it into a slightly embellished tale of Byleth’s heroism, while downplaying the actions of her father, Trips, and Zarad taking on the mysterious mage. Byleth had been then overwhelmed again by praise from the Princess’ classmates, even from Linhardt and Bernadetta. Hubert had pestered her with questions, delving into her past and upbringing in Remire, and her days as a mercenary. Byleth had tried to answer as completely as she could, but at the first chance excused herself finally to talk more with the more gregarious Ferdinand and Petra, with Edelgard at her side, and joined by Dorothea and Caspar. It had been a lively evening, only stopping once Trips had come looking for her to rejoin the company. Byleth had noted with interest that her throat felt sore from all the talking.

The next day was just as eventful. A promise to visit Claude after his classes turned into a full fledged tour of Garreg Mach, accompanied by Hilda and Lorenz. The three nobles chuckled frequently as Byleth looked upward constantly at the tall towers and flying buttresses like a simpleton, but she was too distracted by the sights to notice. The concept of a sauna still confused Byleth, who was used to washing in cold streams or the occasional tub of lukewarm water. Claude mischievously held an impromptu picnic for them in the monastery greenhouse, pointing out that the fruits and vegetables they were filching were going to end up in the same place anyway. Even Lorenz was amused by that antic. Again, her time was cut short as Byleth was called away by a stern yet tolerantly amused Jeralt. As an adjutant in her father’s company, Byleth couldn’t completely stay away from her duties, even while nursing a slowly healing broken arm.

Today had been just as interesting. Byleth had shifted restlessly through meetings and introductions with various Knights, learning how the Knights of Seiros conducted itself as a military force, as well as more information about the Holy Book of Seiros than Byleth really wanted to know. She was bemused to find herself now considered a serjeant-at-Arms of the Knights of Seiros, but she and Trips had enjoyed themselves teasing Zarad about his new rank, both of them laughing at his increasingly grumpy rejoinders.

This afternoon she had met Prince Dimitri at the training grounds, remembering to bow to the Prince in the presence of his stern retainer, a large Duscarman named Dedue. Byleth was curious as to the relationship between the Prince and the foreigner, but instead was content to watch with the two magicians, Annette and Mercedes, as the other Blue Lions trained and sparred. She was impressed by what she had seen. Knowing how strong Prince Dimitri truly was, Byleth judged him doing his best to be considerate of his teammates when he could have easily broken past their guards with brute strength. The sour faced nobleman, Felix of House Fraldarius, was impressively quick and powerful with his sword, and Byleth’s sword hand clenched restlessly at the idea of facing him. Knight Catherine was there as well, shamelessly providing unsolicited advice to all opponents during sparring duels. The strangely masked Combat Instructor, Jeritza, was silent most of the time but Byleth heard his deep quiet voice coaching the students in between drills and matches. He was about Byleth’s age, she judged, but very competent at his job, for nearly every student showed immediate improvement. After the bouts, she thanked Dimitri for his time, and nearly every Blue Lion wished her well and a speedy recovery, while Felix dourly insisted on dueling her as soon as she was able.

Byleth wondered if this was what making friends felt like.

That was a few short hours ago. She was so caught up in memory of recent events that she was oblivious to the current agitation of her father, Trips, and Zarad, and unmindful of meeting with the Archbishop. It was probably going to be just another boring meeting about being true to the Church of Seiros...

Zarad crossed his arms across his chest, his strength nearly fully restored due to Trips' healing and a bitter concoction provided by the Knights' infirmary. He rumbled in the direction of the Abbot, "You may call me part of the Knights of Seiros, but I am Bloodsworn to the Captain. Only he can truly order me about."

Seteth peered closely at Zarad. "Yet your hair is shorn, which means according to your land, you are without honor, correct?"

Sweat suddenly sprang out on Zarad's forehead and lips, but otherwise he made no response.

"I don't know anything about that," growled Trips, gripping her white staff tightly, as if ready for a fight. "What I do know is that I'm Byleth's...stepmom!" she burst out, without a glance to Jeralt. "Believe me when I say that I've changed enough dirty cloths on this kid to have the right to stand before anyone who wants to meet her!" Byleth snapped out of her reverie at that, feeling her skin heat all of the sudden at Trips' frank speech before this stranger of the Church.

"All right, you two, that's enough," said an exasperated Jeralt. "I've dealt with Lady Rhea for years. Decades, even. Although I might be out of practice, I think Byleth and I can handle ourselves for one short interview."

"Captain--!" hissed Trips in an angry whisper. Zarad glowered but made no move.

Seteth bowed shortly. "It is good you have agreed, Captain Jeralt. Please, just follow me--"

"Brother!"

The intruding voice belonged to a short girl in antique blue embroidered robes, her long hair the color of fresh grass in the sun. She quickly hurried to stand by the Abbot’s side. "There you are! I have been looking for you since--Oh, my!" she gave a wide gasp, peering up at Zarad. "How tall and imposing you are!" Zarad made no move aside from slowly grinning down at the short girl with his scarred face, baring his teeth. The girl gave a happy laugh in the face of the threatening giant and then investigated Jeralt, saying "Well if it isn't Sir Jeralt! I have heard so much about you from my brother and Rhea!"

Jeralt looked up at the flustered Seteth. "Your sister?" he asked, a knowing smirk on his face.

Seteth nodded the affirmative quickly, then in a voice of long patience, said to the girl, "I have duties to attend to at the moment, Flayn. You were supposed to be in your room, getting ready for bed," he said sternly.

Flayn stuck a tongue out at her much older brother. "Oh, that is so dreadfully boring! I simply could not sleep, not when there are so many new friends to meet!" She looked at Byleth, noting at once the blue haired mercenary's arm in a sling. "Oh dear, that does look painful. And on your sword arm! Assuming you are right-handed of course? I assume you are?" said the short girl, smiling up at Byleth.

Byleth looked at the girl, not knowing what to make of her, but feeling herself drawn in by her easy chatter and earnest personality. "Yes. I mean I am. It still is painful, but will heal in another week." She gave a mercenary's shrug. "Not my first injury."

"But it looks like it would be awkward to sleep on! And you would lose the opportunity to train and play and fish all during this week! No, I must see to this myself, I'm afraid," said the girl called Flayn. "Please remove it from the sling to let me heal you."

"Flayn, that is enough! We cannot--" yelled Seteth abruptly.

"Cannot what, brother?! Help someone in need? Why do we have these powers if we cannot even use them to do good?" returned Flayn hotly. She turned a sweet smiling face back to Byleth. "This will not take but a moment, Miss--?"

"Byleth," said Jeralt's daughter uncertainty while she unstrapped her arm free from the leather wraps, holding it carefully before her. She was not very willing to hold out her still sore and swollen arm, but the girl plucked it up with a touch of a gentle whisper, lightly humming to herself as her fingers danced intermittently across Byleth's arm. Seteth stood by, a look of poorly concealed chagrin on his bearded face.

Trips felt an obligation to speak up. "Look, little Miss--Flayn, was it?--I'm Byleth's healer, and a pretty darn good one too, so while I apprecia--AGH!"

Intolerable light flared around the girl’s handsl, causing Trips, Jeralt, and Zarad to cry out and avert their eyes, while a resigned Seteth, Flayn, and to her own surprise, Byleth, looked on. White motes seemed to gather from the surrounding air to the girl’s hands, then solidify, then flow like watery light into Byleth's flesh and bone, ignoring the metal arm guard and the rest of her clothing. The young mercenary felt a quickening flutter in her left breast, as if something was tapping her on the chest, that flowed inside her body down the blood vessels of her arm. Then the incandescent light abruptly faded.

"Gah! Now I am blind! Curse the moment we set foot in this witch’s castle!"

"Just blink, you oaf! It's just the afterimage," Trips muttered to Zarad, who was leaning against a nearby wall and gasping. Jeralt rubbed his eyes quickly over and over, looking with tearing eyes at where Byleth stood with Flayn.

The girl was staring up at Byleth, her eyes wide and her face looking enchanted. His daughter was looking at her right arm with interest, flexing and twisting it slowly.

"This is a delight! You are one of us, are you not?" whispered the girl.

"One of who, what? Never mind, kid, let me see," rasped out Trips, although everything still appeared as blotchy spots before her vision. Feeling Byleth's arm in her hand, Trips extended her magical senses, her mind’s eye feeling the strong pulse, firm tissue, and healthy bone inside.

"Captain," said the short-haired healer to Jeralt. "Her bone’s set. She’s cured completely." Trips blinked down in amazement at Flayn, who was yawning. "How did you do that at your age? Even I couldn't do that, and I've been a healer for twenty years."

"Oh, I've just been practicing for a long time...longer than that," said a dozy Flayn to a shocked Trips. "Please forgive me, Miss Healer-Lady, but I feel quite sleepy all of the sudden. Perhaps we can talk more tomorrow..."

"An excellent idea, Flayn," Seteth interposed rapidly. "Please do so before you expose yourself any further detection and--"

"Brother, I have had about enough of your attitude!" pouted Flayn suddenly, her drowsiness vanishing beneath her irritation.

Trips now sensed the dynamic between the two. She sneakily glanced at Jeralt and Zarad, catching their eyes, then knelt and lowered her head near the girl’s green curls. "You know, Miss Flayn, your brother here was saying my friend Zarad and I couldn't see Lady Rhea, even though we desperately wanted an audience with her. We've been pious members of the Church of Seiros all of all lives, you see, but he still won’t let us in to see her with our friends Jeralt and Byleth."

"What?! That is a lie--" Seteth started to shout, veins popping out on his neck.

"Enough, brother! Your overbearing interference ruins everything for everyone," the little girl shouted back, shocking the older man. She then turned to the rest of the group and said in a sweet voice, "I am quite certain Lady Rhea could accommodate just a few extra visitors. Isn't that right, brother?" she said, firmly defiant.

No one said anything for a long moment.

Trips rose away from the girl with a triumphant smirk and stepped forward to Seteth, her staff hitting the floor with a thud.

"We will all see the Archbishop now," she told Seteth. He stared down at her, his face caught between concern and anger. Both said nothing as they negotiated without words. "Very well," the High Abbot finally sighed, his face composed once more. "Please follow me. And you as well, Flayn!"

*

Byleth had been impressed by what she had managed to see of Garreg Mach, appreciating its luxurious yet martial accommodations. She hadn't found the time to broach the subject of enrolling at the school with her Dad, yet she could feel the insistent allure of spending a year next to Edelgard pulling powerfully inside of her. However, she was truly astonished by the room before her now. Multicolored mosaics lined the floor and ceiling of the entire grand room, with ancient statuary and artifacts tucked into niches lining the walls or set before ancient pillars smoothed by generations of human hands. The center of the room soared up to a high basilica, sparkling with gold and silver and red. Behind a single stone throne...a throne with a symbol that tugged at Byleth's mind...there was stunning stained glass artwork, detailed into complex patterns and scenery. Despite the night sky outside, the interior shone as if the stars themselves illuminated the entire chamber, their gentle light magnified a hundredfold.

Seated on that stone throne, upon a dias, there was a green haired woman in white robes, with an elaborate golden headdress.

And Byleth remembered her.

The four mercenaries walked slowly inside the room, displaying themselves before the woman on the dias. Seteth, his blue and black cape trailing behind him along with his small sister, approached the woman on the throne and genuflected once before her. "Archbishop Lady Rhea, these are the leaders of the mercenary company that have rescued the three royal students. Their Captain is an old friend we had once thought--lost--but is now returned to us," he said as he presented them, stepping to the side.

"So I see," said the tall aristocratic woman, arising in a silky motion, stepping slowly and carefully past Seteth and Flayn to stand before Jeralt. "It has been a long time since you were last at Garreg Mach, Knight-Captain Jeralt. Many hearts grieved on that day you were thought to be lost. But I am pleased to see you well, and even more pleased for your timely assistance to the Church."

Jeralt bowed smoothly before Lady Rhea. "Lady Rhea, you are as gracious as this old man can remember," he said shortly, but nothing else. He seemed to be trying to shield Byleth behind him, which Byleth did not mind at all, being overwhelmed by the feeling of being surrounded by countless unknown enemies. The room felt like ice while a burning pressure was forcing its way from inside her chest. She knew the woman on that dais. She knew her from her dreams! The shock of her realization was making her blood thunder in her ears.

"You are too kind," said the woman called Rhea after a bare pause. "And who are your companions with you, Jeralt?" Sighing, Jeralt introduced Zarad, who gave a bare nod to Rhea's serene one, and a 'Lady Beatrix,' who managed a barely civil, "Archbishop Rhea." Then finally it came, the moment that all of them had been dreading. Byleth felt a stab of something in her chest and head, but she had to walk forward to the woman as her father introduced her.

"And this," announced Jeralt hand on the shoulder of a visibly tense Byleth, "is my daughter, Byleth." Jeralt barely noted Byleth's tension, as he was pale and slightly shaking as well.

The Lady Rhea's smile grew. "I see. The years have truly blessed you with a fine daughter, Jeralt. You should feel proud. Now, my dear," said Lady Rhea softly. "Come closer. I wish to see you better."

"Yes, Lady," a pale Byleth managed to say, moving stiffly forward, her chest fluttering strangely. The beautiful woman outwardly was calm, alluring, and peaceful; yet Byleth had a wordless urge to either flee from her or attack her, remembering how quickly that pale smiling face could change into a bloody snarl of endless hate, teeth bared with the eyes red from madness....

Byleth tried to look away from the glittering figure, but felt a white soft hand gently guide her face upward. The Lady's holy face encompassed her vision, her smile indicating nothing but compassion and love, but her green eyes sought out and looked deep into Byleth's own, searching the core of her being, peeling each layer aside as easily as an onion. The pressure in her chest eased suddenly, making Byleth's head feel light and her knees weak.

"You look so much like her," said Lady Rhea gently, smiling widely. The hand touching her chin swept aside to a strand of blue hair near Byleth's cheek, briefly affixing it behind her ear. Lady Rhea's smile did not change, but her eyes flickered briefly.

"L-like who, Lady?" said Byleth in a shaking voice, wishing for the contact to end, suddenly wishing she had never come to Garreg Mach, had never seen this woman. The weakness grew through her limbs, and it was getting hard to breathe, to keep her eyes open.

Rhea stepped back and dropped her hand, clasping them again before her in a beatific pose. "Your mother. I...knew her well," she said, the smile dropping away briefly as she looked sad. Then she raised her head to look at her father. "Does she not, Jeralt?"

Her father sounded like he was choking on something. "Yes, Lady Rhea," he said roughly. "She does indeed look like her mother, before she was...taken untimely," he finally finished.

Lady Rhea was looking at her again. "I am pleased to know that you will also be in the service of the Church, Byleth, daughter of Jeralt. Do you wish to join the Knights of Seiros like your father? If not, we could find another, more suitable role, perhaps."

Byleth tried to breathe and stared up at the gentle pale face as it-- _gnawed at the exposed heart of Nemesis, a ventricle bursting to cause hot blood to gush down her throat and chin_ \--gazed sweetly down at her. She fumbled through her scattered thoughts for a response, feeling uncertain and awkward as she noted her silence stretching past the acceptable time for an answer. But the only thought that dominated her mind was that she wanted to be far away from this woman, who made her only feel lost and nameless. A desperate wish to return to the comfort and routine of Remire or the campaign field, eating by campfires with her father and friends, sleeping under the stars, standing watch or engaging in brief episodes of thrilling combat, filled her entire being. She only wanted to escape...but that was no longer possible, she coldly realized. If she left the Church or denied this woman her service, she knew her father and friends would follow her, out of concern and care. The Church could follow them and harass them and hunt them down. They might even have to flee from Fodlan itself. 

And she might never see Edelgard, her new friend, who would be Empress of a mighty empire, ever again.

"Perhaps, Lady..." she started, then swallowed, looking at the tall Archbishop, who patiently awaited a response. She licked her lips and began again, her throat dry as kindling. "Could I enroll in Garreg Mach as a student?"

"Perhaps," Lady Rhea allowed, her voice a soothing melody. "I am certain you could learn more as a diligent student here. But Seteth has already seen to the scheduling and assignment of this current class of students."

"Indeed I have, Lady Rhea. It might not be a question of how old you are, young Byleth, but how experienced. How many years have you campaigned with your father?" Seteth asked her, crossing his arms.

"Three," said Jeralt, the same instant Byleth said "Four." They stared at each other, until Jeralt grudgingly said, "Fine, it was four, if we count that summer to fall campaign in Hyrm territory. Byleth had finally convinced Trips she was ready."

"You mean she finally got strong enough that I couldn't stop her if I tried," quipped the healer, looking at Byleth with fond exasperation.

"Four campaigns," said Seteth, shaking his head. "While we have many capable students, none have more than a years' worth of real fighting or field training. I am afraid that any House we placed you in might have the scales tipped decidedly in their favor. I am sorry."

"There might be another empty position in Garreg Mach that someone as capable as you could fill, however," mentioned Rhea.

"Archbishop Rhea, I must protest again! It already reflects poorly upon the Church that we have had a professor flee his charges! Now we will replace them with her--!" said Seteth, raising his voice.

Rhea simply raised her hand, and Seteth's protests lapsed into silence. "Seteth, you are a voice of caution and compassion, but she is my choice for the position, if that is acceptable to her," Rhea said, nodding towards Byleth.

"What position?" Byleth said with uncertainty.

"That of a House professor, for one of the Houses in Garreg Mach. You would have your pick among the three of them, the Black Eagles, the Blue Lions, and the Golden Deer," said Seteth, his voice calmer, but still stern and angry.

All four mercenaries were shocked, and the older ones looked at each other. They knew Byleth's condition better than anyone, but now that they were under Rhea's power, they realized that Rhea could simply order Byleth to take the job if they spoke out against it. By framing it as a request, only Byleth could turn down the offer. Each hoped she had the wits to do so, knowing that unless the students were truly exceptional and forgiving towards Byleth's uniqueness, she could not succeed in such an intractable position.

Byleth was daunted by the request, her thoughts routed for a second time by the enormous amount of trust and respect that it entailed. She attempted to focus her feelings inward, thinking of her options. The intoxicating pull of becoming the professor of the Black Eagle House, where she would see Edelgard daily, and teach her, and know all of her classmates was almost too tempting to resist, but she tried to force her personal desire aside and focus on the choice rationally. She did have a friend in the Black Eagles; but, with a flash of intuition, she realized she also had one in the Blue Lions, and one in the Golden Deer, as well. Claude's easy manner and endless desire to create fun and laughter had reminded her of her childhood rapport with Zarad, but there was also someone earnest and helpful behind all those defensive witticisms. And Dimitri...Dimitri was kind and courteous to a mercenary woman when he didn't have to be, his caring nature extending to the point where the Prince--the future King of Faerghus--had abased himself before her in apologetic consternation.

She carefully tried to imagine herself making each choice, and what would be the responses of her new young noble friends. She could see Claude laughing her choice off, but that laughter and wit never reaching out to include her again if she did not choose him. Dimitri would accept her choice with courtly polish, but Byleth could sense it would rupture the precious, fragile trust he now shared with her if she went against him. And she could imagine Edelgard accepting the choice against her; Edelgard the Imperial Princess, poised and beautiful as an ice statue that would only cut open Byleth's hand if she ever dared to touch it again.

She didn't want to reject any of them, she concluded, and looked up to see Rhea still smiling down at her. But perhaps there was a way she could avoid it, if she knew more.

“Archbishop,” Byleth slowly said. “I'm sorry, I am just curious to know...do the Knights help teach the students? All of them? Because I have seen Cath...um...I mean Lady Catherine, and Lady Shamir, doing so.”

“They do,” Rhea answered, then gently waved a hand for Seteth to explain further. He told Byleth brusquely, “There are Knights that are assigned on a rotating schedule to certain Houses, in order to facilitate discipline and carry out the Professor's instructions for training. Sometimes they even lead students on missions. However, the Knights usually have duties and responsibilities of their own that sometimes carry them far away from the students. Why do you ask?”

“It's just--I'm sorry, Archbishop, Lord Seteth--I don't think I'm ready to become a Professor,” said Byleth, bowing quickly, the pressure in her chest easing somewhat as her confidence increased. “But I would like to see the students more, and maybe learn how to teach them. And I would like to help teach and protect all of them, if I may.”

Lady Rhea and Seteth looked to one another, considering. Rhea nodded slightly, and Seteth said thoughtfully, “It...might be possible to work with your suggestion. There is certainly merit in the idea of having more Knights in place with the students, in light of recent events.” But then his tone turned authoritative. “However, we could only accept a true Knight of Seiros in a position of such trust and responsibility, not merely a mercenary or an auxiliary. You would have to follow in your father's footsteps and have to pledge yourself to the Church of Seiros and take the vows of sacred knighthood from Lady Rhea, and commit your faith to the Goddess.” She felt her father move restlessly behind her in response to this proclamation behind her, but he said nothing.

Trips, however, did. “Hold on a moment, kid. Are you sure this is what you want?” she said, placing a hand on Byleth's arm, her face full of worry.

Byleth looked back at her healer, her friend, her mother in all but birth. “Trips, I...I think so. It is just...feels right, I guess,” Byleth told her. Trips nodded reluctantly, but the worry did not abate. She briefly tapped her head while looking into Byleth’s eyes. Byleth turned up her mouth to reassure her and whispered, “Well...who knows, maybe being here might help fix that too.” Trips smiled like her heart could burst and wrapped her arms around Byleth tightly, while Byleth put a hand on her back in return.

Looking at her father, Byleth saw that Jeralt's face was resigned but had the small smile she had learned to mimic from him. He nodded in approval, and that was all Byleth needed. Zarad was expressionless save for his sly wink. Trips stepped back from her with bright, proud eyes and nodded as well.

Byleth forced her mind to assert control of her breathing, her muscles. She still felt tingly and light headed, but tried hard to focus on this moment. Intaking a deep breath, she turned to face the woman on the dais, her face shining like the sun at her. Byleth drew her sword from her right hip slowly and knelt with it in front of her.

The Archbishop spoke and her voice was ringing with joy and triumph. “Byleth Eisner, daughter of Jeralt Eisner and Gylasa Eisner, you are hereby called to join the Most Holy Church of Seiros as a Knight of Seiros. Will you answer this call, and pledge your sword and life and honor to defend the Church, and become an instrument of the Will of the Goddess?”

Looking up to the face of the Archbishop, Byleth said in a firm voice as she knelt, hands on her bare sword. "Yes, Lady Seiros. I will join the Church of Rhea, as a Knight of Rhea."

Absolute silence. The Archbishop was staring at her in open-mouthed astonishment. Zarad stayed motionless. Jeralt and Seteth both put a hand over their eyes. Trips sighed, shook her head, and said, "Oh, kid..."

Byleth looked around her, not sure what she had said wrong.

Flayn abruptly giggled from where she stood next to Seteth. "I like you! I think we shall become great friends!"

*

Byleth had left--after hastily giving the appropriate oath--with Flayn and Zarad. The little girl had insisted on being the one to show Byleth to her new quarters with the Knights, and Zarad had followed out of concern for Byleth and as an excuse to be away from Rhea.

Trips gazed uncomfortably at Lady Rhea and Seteth, unexcited by the forthcoming conversation. For their part, Seteth and Rhea appeared reluctant as well. Lady Rhea still appeared shaken and withdrawn, and Seteth had lapsed into a brooding silence. Jeralt was so introverted he appeared to be in a daze.

Lady Rhea finally recovered her presence of mind, and said, “Captain Jeralt, Lady Beatrix, I believe we both owe it to each other to explain ourselves somewhat. Please believe me when I say I have no ill intentions concerning you, or your daughter. Let me repeat that I am most grateful that you are here, and offering your timely assistance in our hour of need.”

Jeralt roused himself and glared evenly at Lady Rhea, his scarred face impassive. “I don't know if I can ever fully trust you again, Lady Rhea. Catherine told me about your surveillance of us. And we both know that running from or fighting the Knights of Seiros was not an option. So you’ve found us. Now what?”

“Now we hopefully begin again, Jeralt,” said Rhea in a sad voice. “I am sorry for not confiding in you at the time, twenty-one years ago. Gylasa’s death affected me deeply as well. At the end of her pregnancy, while she was in labor, there were...complications. She begged me to save your dying child at the expense of her own life. There was no time to seek out your opinion on the matter. I had to make a decision, and invoke all of my powers in a ritual to save only one of them. So I choose...your daughter.”

“But what did you do?” growled Jeralt, his fury growing with each word. “You gave me a baby that neither laughed or cried. That had trouble reacting to anything!”

“Listen to me, Lady Rhea,” Trips said, her voice low after Jeralt’s shout and Rhea’s silence. “Jeralt brought that baby to me when I was just starting my career as a town doctor. At first I left it all behind because...reasons,” she said, with a glance at an unfazed Jeralt. Damn the man, she thought, but continued. “But I soon realized, and it soon became apparent that his child would need life-long intervention and care just to become a functional human being. If I hadn't been there for her while Jeralt was out on campaigns, or if we hadn't all gone out of our way just to try to teach the kid how to smile, or laugh, or cry, or...anything!” Trips burst out unashamedly. All the years of mothering, teaching, and raising were coming back to her in a rush, and the intensity of her memories demanded answers. “Just tell us why she doesn't have a heart! Just why! Because everything you see in Byleth today is there because we worked hard to put it there!”

Lady Rhea immediately bowed in response to Trips’ outburst, her headdress tinkling. “And you both have done most wonderfully well, my dear child. I apologize for the suffering you have gone through. It was my intention to help Jeralt with his daughter from the start, but my reticence...my own grief...created the very situation I had hoped to avoid.” The Archbishop bowed her head for a moment before she looked to a grim Seteth amidst Jeralt’s glare and the quiet, angry sobbing of Trips. “Seteth, please have some refreshments brought up from the dining hall, then please rejoin us. We may be talking for some time in my study, and I pray that all of you will find my explanations sufficient.”

“At once, Lady Rhea.” The green haired man bowed and left the audience hall.

The Archbishop motioned for Trips and Jeralt to follow her to the adjoining chamber, with comfortable chairs arranged around a low table, with well-lit lamps in sconces encasing the room in a gentle glow. After a moment while they composed themselves, they entered, and the Archbishop removed her tiara and placed it with the tinkle of gold chimes on a head mount next to a small altar. They all seated themselves slowly before one another, the tension easing slightly.

Jeralt shifted in his chair for a moment and then admitted, “I appreciate this gesture, Rhea. You could have hid behind your title and your position. You could have simply dismissed us. Perhaps I was wrong to judge you.”

“Perhaps not, Jeralt. Despite what you may think, I am not without regrets and guilt myself. But please reserve your judgement until you hear some of what I must say,” said Rhea, who somehow seemed more approachable, more human, when she did not tower above petitioners in her customary position of state and sat eye-level with them, and with her pale green hair undone about her shoulders. “I admit that I had agents following your movements over the years. The fire you set was a clever trick, Jeralt, but you had been in my service for too long. I knew at once the collection of burnt bones inside that chamber could not have been you or your daughter. And at first I must admit that I was...angry. And hurt.”

“It wasn’t me who first severed those threads, Rhea,” growled the Blade-Breaker, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair.

Rhea’s eyes flashed dangerously for an instant, but then smoothed into pools of deep sadness. “As you say. And that is why I let you go, my Knight. Because in the end, you acted as you did out of love. As any parent would do in protecting their child. And...I could not fault you for that.”

“And who exactly is Byleth’s mother? Gylasa?” Trips asked Rhea, still red-eyed from her tears. Jeralt grimaced at her, his face angry, but the healer glared back at him in defiance, saying, “After helping raise your child for twenty odd years, _Captain,_ I believe I’m finally entitled to some of your secrets.”

“Jeralt?” said Rhea quietly. Trips stared back and forth between the two, amazed despite her concerns. The Archbishop of Fodlan asking the permission of a slovenly Knight-turned-Merc? The bond between the two must have been deep indeed…

Jeralt’s face slowly relaxed, and suddenly he looked a hundred years old and then some in his chair. “It’s fine, Rhea. Go ahead and tell her.”

Rhea was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She started her tale to Trips slowly and said, “If you know anything about the Church of Seiros, you must understand this: the reason for its existence is a channel for the hope and prayers of the faithful, that the day will come when The Holy Goddess Sothis is once again made flesh, and will walk once more on the Earth, granting a thousand years of peace for every year of war and sin mankind has endured in her absence. And though you may know of the original Five Saints, the disciples of the Goddess’ Divine Covenant, there have been special...individuals, shall we say, throughout history, who have been known only to the Church as the Sainted. Some were mighty prophets, such as Adrestia the Seer, who spoke of the rise and certainty of the Divine Empire. Another Sainted was the quiet warrior Pan, who crafted the strategies of King Loog and Duke Kyphon in the first days of the Holy Kingdom.”

Shaking her head, Trips said, “You’re just throwing names out of history books here, Rhea. What makes you...and I guess the Church...so sure that they’re this ‘Sainted’ you talk about?”

Rhea’s green eyes bore into Trips. “Because it was recorded, on good authority with multiple sources, that all of these individuals had...dreams.”

Trips’ heart began beating very hard and fast in her chest, and she clutched her staff to herself tightly.

The Archbishop continued her story. “These dreams are of things that the Sainted could not have possibly known on their own. Dreams of the ancient past. Dreams of possible futures, yet to come. Of events thousands of leagues away, confirmed only months later. Some even confessed to speak with the dead...” Rhea trailed off, looking grief-stricken, before she continued. “A few succumbed to madness, living out their days trying to flee from phantoms of the mind. Yet it was the will of Saint Seiros that the Church seek out and record as much as they could of the lives of these individuals, for each dream may contain a clue, or a hint of prophecy of the Goddess’ Rebirth. Or so the Church had hoped.” Rhea’s face quickly became pinched and bitter. “Much was lost in the so-called Imperial Renaissance a century ago. Only a few fragments and copies have survived, and they are among the most precious sacred texts Garreg Mach houses.”

Finding she could sympathize with Rhea on this topic, at least, Trips nodded her understanding. “The book-burnings. I’ve read stories of that time. All the Imperial churches and monasteries were looted and seized after the rebellion of Julius, the Warrior Bishop.”

“From which the Church is still recovering,” added Rhea with a sigh. “Julius was one of the Sainted as well, and became convinced that his dreams were a divine message from the Goddess, that the nobility and royalty were decadent and corrupt, and a revival of faith was needed before the Goddess could be Reborn. When he fell at Fort Merceus and the Southern Church was dissolved in the Empire, many in the Church despaired of another Sainted ever arising once more. I...was among those who shared that belief. Even after my accession to Archbishop.”

Jeralt coughed suddenly and looked away, but said nothing. Trips shot him a curious frown, but inclined her head for Rhea to go on.

“Thus I was astonished and desperate when one of the young nuns here at Garreg Mach, a beautiful young woman named Glyasa, began to have dreams. Astonished, in that it had occurred relatively soon after the fall of Julius. Desperate, because I thought that her dreamings might finally be the long awaited sign of the Goddess Reborn, so near the Goddess Tower and the Cathedral of Rebirth. It has been over a thousand years…” Rhea trailed off again, but finally looked at Jeralt with a mix of unreadable emotions. “But I...overwhelmed the poor child, in my selfish desires. She wanted nothing to do with my wishes, and was frightened by what she could not control, despite my pledges of assistance. Instead, she...found solace elsewhere. And I had to respect her decision. I released her from her Holy Vows, and she and Jeralt were wed with my blessing, here at Garreg Mach, twenty-five years ago.”

Looking between the Archbishop and the Captain, Trips felt comprehension crystalize in her mind. Jeralt had confided to her and Zarad years ago of his status as a fugitive ex-Knight of Seiros, and for many of those years Trips had wondered what precipitated such a drastic fall from grace for the man. If he had truly been the Knight-Captain of the Church of Seiros, he and Rhea would have known each other for decades, as he had said. It was a personal bond that bordered on marriage. But then, Byleth’s mother had stepped in between them. Trips mentally snorted to herself. It was a classic love triangle, not that Jeralt or Rhea would ever admit it. No wonder their feelings concerning each other ran so deep and ambivalent. And now Byleth was the focus between them, just as her mother had been…

Shaking off the thought of omens, Trips said quietly, “I think I finally understand, Lady Rhea. You don’t have to tell me anymore. I understand now.”

Rhea nodded in gratitude to the healer and smiled. “Thank you, Lady Beatrix. It is a...difficult and painful memory. But there is joy in it as well, because of Byleth. Such a sweet and innocent girl, and from what I have been told, as capable as her father was at his age.”

“Ancient history,” muttered Jeralt, but there was a ghost of a smile on his scarred face.

Rhea gently smiled at them both. “I am delighted that she has decided to become a Knight. In time, I think she will become the greatest one of all. But once Seteth arrives, I will tell all of you what you must know about her...and what I had to do to save her life.”

Jeralt and Trips carefully looked at each other, and Jeralt said in a voice thick with suspicion, “You really do need us, don’t you, Rhea? That’s why you’re volunteering this information so easily.”

To Trips’ shock, Rhea wrung her hands and said desperately, “Please listen to me, Jeralt. We are putting on a brave face, but the Church is in crisis. Fodlan is in crisis. My authority is now tenuous, and our political support has been nearly non-existent since the death of King Lambert. You and Byleth...as well as your friends, Lady Beatrix and Zarad, and all of your company...are sorely needed to address the mysterious enemies we face. If any of those three heirs had died in that bandit attack, the Church could have...no, it would have been blamed. Garreg Mach itself would have been under siege by the nations of Fodlan. The people are already losing their faith in the Goddess and the Word of Seiros. This recent attack may well have been the fatal wound.”

Trips considered this at length and said, “Lady Rhea, we wouldn’t be here unless we didn’t believe that as well. You can trust us to help defend Fodlan, along with Byleth.” She nodded to Jeralt, who nodded back. “But you have to let us know the truth about her. About what you say you did to save her life. She’s worked hard and has come a long way to do what she can do. And anything more that she gets from you...must come through us. Is this acceptable?”

Rhea was silent for pause, but then inclined her head in agreement. “It is. And it does ease my mind that you are so willing to help. But while we are awaiting our refreshments, Jeralt,” said the Archbishop, leaning forward slightly, “perhaps we can discuss the role a returning Knight-Captain of Seiros can play at Garreg Mach.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I wrote this before Cindered Shadows, so Byleth's mom is Glaysa. She's also of fair health aside from her psych issues and is 25 instead of 20, just to...you know. Just to prevent the mental image of a hundred year old man hitting on a sick teenager. (Why?! Sitri was twenty when she died. Do people not know how long pregnancies last? This is storks and cabbage patch BS by neurotic otakus, and I'm sorry, but it pushed my squick buttons.)


	9. The New Professor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We can dance if we want to,   
> we can leave your friends behind  
> Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance  
> Well they're are no friends of mine.
> 
> \--
> 
> Men Without Hats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really happy with this chapter. Everything just seemed to click. I hope you are too.

Ch 9

The New Professor

Edelgard paused for one final look in the mirror, making sure the expensive power and creams were fulfilling their functions. Despite three days past a day of marching and revel, a battle the day before, and an exhausting midnight pursuit with imbeciles she had hoped to assassinate the night before that, the nightmares still constantly returned. It was an hour past dawn now and she could delay facing the world no longer, and had to simply trust her lightly enchanted make-up to hide the drawn circles under her eyes, and to help bring fullness to her hollow cheeks. The last thing she wanted this morning was some fool commenting on her appearance, openly speculating to everyone within earshot if the Heir of House Hresvelg was growing soft and weak. Particularly any fools named Ferdinand von Aegir.

She contemplated the previous days, reviewing the results of the botched mission as she dressed. Most of the Kostas' gang were dead, although some were now languishing in captivity in the dungeons below Garreg Mach, as prisoners of the Central Church. Edelgard idly reminded herself to have Jeritza or Hubert attend to them; not that they could tell the Church anything useful. Kostas had been her only go-between, and he was safely and satisfyingly dead by her own hand. Professor Masterson had been chased away, and the subtle notes and warnings he had been given beforehand would ensure he wouldn't be coming back. Jeritza's application for professorship to the Golden Deer House had easily followed, and soon Edelgard would have influence and access to every House and student within Garreg Mach. Professors Manuela and Hanneman, with their own prejudices against the nobility and their previous ties to the Empire, were already in her pocket. Claude and Dimitri were disappointingly still alive, and the Church was aware it had enemies, but let them jump at shadows, Edelgard thought dismissively. Her next plan to publicly discredit the nobility and the Church would not fail, and the Church would still be flailing about, fighting the last battle like it always has done.

The one bright point from this excursion was a powerful and potentially sympathetic ally in the mercenary who had saved her from Kostas. Byleth had a strange effect on her, making her say more than she meant or act in ways inappropriate to her station. Edelgard had found herself spending more time with the older woman than absolutely necessary the other night, to the understandable dismay of Hubert. But why not? Edelgard thought in a jealous huff as she clasped her red cloak around her shoulders. Was it so wrong to enjoy oneself just for one evening, with the eager attention of someone who could become their strongest convert yet? For all of her inconvenient religiosity and occasional graceless manners, the woman was good company--her dry humor a match for Edelgard's own--and she was skilled and experienced. She had lived in the Empire her entire life. Her membership to the Black Eagle House was all but certain, due to the shared and mutual rapport between the two of them. A win for her, meaning a loss for Dimitri and Claude, and eventually, the Church. That was a comforting thought.

A low knock on the door. Surely Hubert. Edelgard sighed, checked her appearance one last time, then assumed her bearing as she announced, “Come in.”

The tall man opened the door swiftly and entered, and then closed it behind him. Edelgard's eyes widened at the impropriety but Hubert evenly said, “The hallway is clear. I will tell you quickly and leave, but you must know. It appears Rhea has moved in an...unanticipated direction.”

Edelgard's eyes narrowed, her smoldering hatred of that monstrous thing in control of humanity threatening to engulf her. “Tell me.”

*

“Are they all in here?” asked Jeralt, standing with Trips and Zarad before the Golden Deer Homeroom.

“Yup,” said Claude, now clean and smartly dressed in full military uniform even though his hair was still uncombed. “I know at least one of them is likely to burst when she finds out her new House Professor is. She drops your name like, I dunno, every other minute.”

“What? I've met someone in here before? Who?” asked the former Knight, itching uncomfortably in his new Golden Deer tabard and moderately clean armor. Seteth had insisted.

“Leonie Pinelli, from Sauin Village,” said Claude. Jeralt's scared face looked blank at the response. Claude grew mildly concerned and said, “Your former apprentice? The one you gave a wooden necklace to?”

Jeralt was shocked. “Wait. Orange hair? Little spitfire of a hellkitten? From Sauin? How could she get into Garreg Mach?”

“Well, aside from the little and kitten part, all true. Apparently her entire village pooled money for her tuition. She’s made a bit of a reputation for herself in Leicester as an archer and a hunter while still a teenager. Seems you made an impression on her,” said Claude casually.

“Wonderful. More girls fawning over the Captain's prowess. His legend among ladies grows daily,” said Zarad in a grim tone. Trips snorted and laughed at that.

“Please behave, for my sanity's sake,” grumbled Jeralt. He didn’t need his authority undermined by his friends on day one. “Who else?” he asked Claude.

“Let’s see, there's Raphael Kirsten and Ignatz Victor. Two sons of wealthy merchant families, although Raphael’s parents’ estate has fallen on hard times. Raphael is as strong as a beast, and tends to learn by doing, not reading, if you catch my drift, and by the way you're nodding at me you have. Ignatz is a second son, so no inheritance, but he’s a talented archer, and could be better, but prefers books and art to training sometimes.” Claude’s voice turned deep with sarcasm. “Then there's “Lady” Hilda Goneril, the younger sister of Lord Holst. She's so spoiled even flies avoid her, but she could still probably murder me with an axe if she wanted. Something about her Crest makes her a lot more stronger and skilled than she appears.”

“Most Crests do that,” murmured Trips. “Do you have any magicians in this group?” Those students would fall under her responsibility.

“Oh boy do we ever,” grinned Claude. “We have Lysenthia von Ordelia, the fifteen year old magical prodigy from House Ordelia. She's cute as a button but deadlier than a wyvern. I like to tease her and she's mature enough that she hasn't turned me to ash...yet. Then there's the nobleman everyone loves to hate, Lorenz Hellman Glouscester. He's skilled and strong and smart, and has that extra special noble _je ne sais quoi_ that makes his face appear extra punchable.” Claude sighed almost genuinely in regret. “He's actually quite decent and good-natured, but you have to put up with a lot of ego to even see a glimpse of it.”

“A Glouscester and an Ordelia,” said Trips, thinking out loud. “Anyone else?”

“Ah, finally, there's our resident wallflower Marianne von Edmund. I, uh, don't actually know if she has a Crest or not, because she freaks out and gets catatonically nonverbal whenever I bring it up. She seems to enjoy daily chapel and stable duty and...that's about it. She doesn't like to train, she doesn't like to cast magic, she doesn't even seem to like life. To be honest I thought she was deaf-mute at first, she spoke so little and ignored me so much.”

Jeralt grimaced at that. "Sounds like another young woman who needs a doctor’s intervention," he told Trips. She pursed her lips and nodded unhappily. "All right, let's get this over with." He nodded to Zarad, who opened the doors.

The Golden Deer students were lounging about and talking around a single table in the classroom, aside from the aforementioned Marianne, a light blue haired girl with bangs and a haunted expression. A girl in bright pink pigtails was the first to notice them.

"Hey, Claude, who's THIS you've brought with you? Oh wow, is one of you going to be our new professor?" she said in a wheedling voice. Jeralt tried not to take an instant dislike.

"Captain Jeralt! Oh Goddess, is it really you Captain? Are you really going to be our Professor?" said a tall girl in an orange bowl cut, her excitement spilling over.

"All right, knock it off, all of you," bellowed Jeralt. The students were stunned into silence, except for Leonie, who still seemed to be making high pitched noises in the back of her throat. "Yes, I'll be the new professor for the Golden Deer..."

Pandemonium erupted. Everyone began talking, shouting, or squealing all at once, aside from Marianne.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" roared Jeralt in a battlefield shout of a general. "CADETS, FORM RANK! THAT MEANS YOU TOO, GOLDEN BOY!" He pushed Claude into the swarm of milling bodies.

Each noble and commoner formed into a single file rank, all at various degrees of attention. Lysithea, Leonie, and Lorenz were all flawlessly composed, while Hilda and Claude kept trying to elbow one another or make faces. Marianne and Ignatz looked terrified, while Raphael accepted it all with a smile. Jeralt walked up and down the line, his hands behind his back. Trips and Zarad rolled their eyes as they lounged near the door.

"All right, at ease, cadets," Jeralt announced. "Some of you know me, but most do not. Yes, I am Jeralt Eisner, former Knight-Captain of the Knights of Seiros. Lady Rhea has, um, pulled me out of retirement to be the new Professor for the Golden Deer.” Jeralt heard the twin smothered laughs behind him and he silently vowed to get his subordinates later. “I prefer to be informal myself, but if we have to be formal we can do that as well. I do, however, demand the respect of being listened to until I have finished speaking." Jeralt came to the end of the line and turned to the students there.

"My Lord of Gloucester, My Lady of Ordelia, and My Lady of Edmund," he announced. "I am grateful to say I know nothing of magic, except how to kill people who use it. Therefore you will be training with my assistant and fellow Knight-Auxillary, Lady Beatrix." Trips gave a smile and a wave to the students. "My Lady of Goneril and Mr. Kirsten will train in their chosen weapons and tactics with me."

"My Lord of Riegan, Mr. Victor, and Miss Pinelli will also train tactics and weapons with me, but also hone their stealth and archery skills with my corporal, Knight-Auxillary Zarad..."

"Whaaat? An Almyran Knight? You've got to be kidding me, right?" burst out Hilda. Claude closed his eyes and let out a slow breath, while every other student either smiled in glee or winced in sympathy. Jeralt wheeled immediately and suddenly loomed tall over the short pink haired noble.

"Hilda. The only thing I dislike more than being interrupted is repeating myself. So please leave, and start weeding," said Jeralt in a tone of death.

"Um. Ok. Where, Professor Jeralt?" said Hilda, subdued for once in her life.

"Garreg Mach."

"All of it?" the teen noblewoman gasped.

"If you start now, I may not include stable duty."

"Yes, sir...except I'm so fragile and not used to such hard labor. If maybe someone could help me? After all, we all interrupted at one point," she whined, using every ploy at her disposal.

"Hmmm," Jeralt said, his eyes roving at the other cadets. "You're right, Hilda. Someone should help you. Marianne!" he barked.

"Ah! Um, yes? Professor?" whispered the girl. Jeralt had seen mice that were more assertive.

"Please keep Hilda company while she weeds the grounds. Your job is to talk with Hilda and to watch her while she works, but you are NOT to help her. Understood?" demanded Jeralt.

"Um. Ok," whispered the pale girl. Jeralt had difficulty envisioning her on a training ground, much less a battlefield. He allowed Trips to help push the silent noble and whining noble outside the classroom to get them started on their chores, while Zarad beamed at an enraged Hilda in amusement.

"While those two are becoming good friends, I believe we have some more important things to discuss," smiled Jeralt at his students. "Such as winning the upcoming mock battle between the Houses."

Claude smiled broadly and looked at his remaining classmates. Leonie was grinning like a predator. Lysenthia and Lorenz both leaned forward with interest while Raphael smiled at an excited Ignatz.

“Captain Teach,” said Claude with solemn dignity, “I do believe that this is going to be a match made in heaven.”

*

“This is stupid,” grumbled Byleth, standing in a small sacristy inside Garreg Mach Cathedral.

“Not as stupid as mixing up the name of a Saint and the Archbishop, surely,” said Catherine in a mocking tone.

Byleth gritted her teeth for lack of a response. That little green haired imp of a girl-- _Flayn--_ had apparently told the story of Byleth's induction into the Knights of Seiros the past evening. It was now mid-morning, which meant everyone in the monastery had heard about it. She stood restlessly, wanting to get these inconvenient religious requirements out of the way. Apparently becoming a Knight of Seiros--especially one committed to the faith of the Church--was more involved and complicated than she had thought.

Shamir emerged from the interior of the sacristy closet. “Here we go. I think this one will fit you,” she stated, tossing Byelth a white robe. “Go ahead and put it on, and I’ll store your gear for you.”

Byleth nodded and set aside the sacred robe to begin unbuckling straps and removing armor and clothing without modesty, moving with careful efficiency to gather and fold her belongings. Catherine’s eyes bulged from her place by the doorway briefly, before she quickly turned her back and left, saying something under her breath.

The newest member of the Knights of Seiros stood naked as she handed her things to Shamir, who accepted them wordlessly. “What’s her problem?” Byleth said curiously, tilting her head at the doorway.

“I’ve wondered the same thing myself at times,” said Shamir with a smile. “Put on your robe and follow me.”

*

Byleth followed Shamir and Catherine outside the cathedral, which was so vast and empty and beautiful that Byleth’s mind shied away from contemplating it too much. Instead, she focused on following Shamir’s back as she carefully walked with bare feet on stones slick with moisture and moss. The stoneslick path eventually opened up to a beautiful wild garden behind the monastery proper, where a lightly bubbling natural pool gurgled, the view past it overlooking the all lands of the north, showing a high mountainous range that hid passes and valleys. Catherine swept one gauntleted hand to encompass the scene before her. “Behold, the Holy Pool. Legend has it that this is where Saint Seiros once bathed, to wash away her sins and worldly grief, to prepare herself to lead a life dedicated to serving the Goddess and await the time for her Rebirth.” She motioned Byleth vaguely to the pool. “Go ahead and hop in when you’re ready.”

Byleth examined the steaming water, but whether from heat or cold, she could not tell. “Did you have to do this?”

“Oh yeah. I didn’t have a choice at all. Any Holy Knight--and certainly one wielding one of the Sacred Relics --has to undergo all of the rituals and ceremonies for Knighthood. This is just the first one. Although the view is worth it, don’t you think?”

Byleth stood at the edge and contemplated the dark water of the pool. “For how long?”

Catherine’s armor clinked as she shrugged. “Long enough to get an idea of what you want to dedicate your Knighthood towards. I jumped in all at once, although the shock almost killed me. It was at that instant I realized I lov-” Catherine coughed, choked for a moment, and then she continued, “that I, uh, cared deeply for Lady Rhea.” 

Byleth nodded and unclasped her woolen belt and shrugged the white robe from her broad shoulders. She slowly stepped into the pool, feeling water-smooth rocks beneath her feet. The water felt...warm. She stepped in more quickly, enjoying the sensation of the water despite her earlier trepidation.

As she neared the deepest part of the pool, she heard Shamir lightly snort from where she admired the vista. “You’re bearing up well. That water is so cold I nearly died before I could get my clothes back on.”

At the archer’s comment, Catherine closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, massaging her sinuses. “Please tell me you did not come up here by yourself and desecrate the Holy Pool, Shamir.”

“Of course I didn’t desecrate it. I swam in it. Plus the view’s nice.” 

“I can’t believe you did that! You know there are sites that are only open to worshippers-” started Catherine hotly.

“Is that Zanado in the distance?” Byleth asked from the far end of the pool, hoping to head off another bickering argument both Knights seemed to thrive on.

Catherine huffed in disgust at a smirking Shamir and walked over to see where the immersed Byleth was pointing to the northwest. “What? Oh. Damn, girl. Good eye. Yeah, that’s where Zanado, the Red Canyon is. Strange place full of broken ruins and shattered rocks. It’s pretty green and brown, too. Don’t know why they call it the Red Canyon. Don’t think anyone knows.”

“I do,” said Byleth, sinking below the water for a moment. She seemed to be enjoying herself.

Catherine stared at Byleth as she swam through the cold dark water, bobbing through it without a flinch. “Really?” she gave a disbelieving snort. “Why is it called that, then?”

“Why is any geographic location called red when it’s obviously not? Probably because a battle was once fought there,” said Shamir, coming to stand by the pool. Byleth had been in there for a long time, for how cold the water felt.

Byleth dipped in her head again in the warm soothing water. It felt so welcoming. When she came up, she threw back her dripping hair and answered. “Shamir’s right. Seiros once lived there.”

Catherine threw an annoyed look at her stoic partner, then said incredulously to Byleth, trying to draw her out, “I’ve never heard of any story about Saint Seiros and the Red Canyon. Could you tell us more?”

Byleth moved her limbs slowly in the water and looked at the blue sky, feeling it pulse through her fingers and toes. The water covered her ears and changed the sound of her voice. “Shamir was right, but it wasn’t really a battle. It was more of a massacre. The Red Canyon is where Sothis died. Seiros came up here to wash off her mother’s blood, and her blood of her people, after the attack.” She flexed her arms and moved deeper into the water.

Catherine was at a loss for words for a moment, and almost jumped when she heard Shamir’s voice next to her. “What attack?” asked the archer quietly. Yet Byleth heard the question.

Byleth floated in the pool, her head above the water, and didn’t answer directly. She seemed to be in a trance, and said in a strange voice, “There were only six of them after the humans attacked, led by the traitor Nemesis. Seiros, Cichol, Aine, Cethleann, Indech, and Macuil. They had seen their guiding star, their mother Sothis, killed and butchered, her skin and bones used to make armor and weapons. They fled to here, exhausted and hunted, covered in blood. Seiros washed her mother’s blood from her face, her tears mixing with the blood in the water of the pool, and vowed revenge. Indech had lost his parents, Nuada and Boann. Macuil had lost his wife and child, Ogma and Ecne. As one, they all swore an oath not to rest until they had recovered the bodies of their loved ones. They then set off to the south, to Enbarr, to forge an Empire and a Church that could oppose Nemesis and his Elites.”

Shamir watched her partner closely, and noted that Catherine appeared rocked by what she was hearing. But she also noticed that Byleth was hardly moving, and was staring unblinkingly at the sky. She quickly knelt down to the water’s edge. “Byleth,” she called loudly.

“There is no Byleth,” said the floating woman.

“Byleth, follow my voice. It’s Shamir. You need to come out of the pool. It’s time.”

A low groan, followed by a whimper, came from the woman. She seemed to be at war within herself.

Shamir rose and hissed to Catherine. “She’s having some sort of stupid religious ecstasy! How do we get her out of there without diving in ourselves?”

Catherine snapped out of her shock and grinned at Shamir. “Like this,” she said, turning to face up the walkway. “Oh hello, Princess Edelgard, Prince Dimitri! Welcome! Please join us!” she shouted brightly.

A thrashing shriek came from the pool, followed by gasping coughs from Byleth as she tried to stagger upright in the chest deep water after falling under the water. She struggled to get her hair out from her eyes as water dripped from her nose and looked at her fellow Knights.

“Is it over? Did I do ok?” she asked between coughs.

Shamir and Catherine caught each other’s eye, and Shamir finally said, “You did fine, Byleth. Come out of the water and put your robe back on.”

As Byleth did as she was asked, now shivering and blue from the magically cold water, Shamir muttered in a low tone to Catherine, “Edelgard _and_ Dimitri?”

Catherine winked at her and whispered, “Sometimes it’s best to cover all the bases.” Speaking louder, she told Byleth, “All right. Let’s get you back up to the Cathedral. We’ve got a lot more to cover.”

*

Dimitri smiled in gratitude towards Dedue as the large man, who was on kitchen duty today, served him a generous portion of thick stew for the noontime meal. Dedue nodded back with quickly hidden smile of his own to his Prince, then moved to attend the next student in line.

Dimitri moved away with his bowl and looked for an empty place to sit in the crowded dining hall. He wanted to hurry up with his meal and return to training, but knew from hard-learned experience that his food needed to cool first before he could consume it. The blisters and sores on his lips and mouth from eating hot food might be painless to him, but they would be unsightly, and it would cause his friends undue distress. He moved to an empty table and reached for a nearby basket of bread, crumbling a loaf into his bowl to help absorb the heat of his meal. He sniffed the stew experimentally and sighed. He could tell it was aromatic, but that was all. Dedue must have worked especially hard on this for him, trying to make for him a flavorful dish for his safe return to Garreg Mach, but it was useless. While he had fully recovered from the Tragedy in appearance, there were still aftereffects impacting his body.

And his mind.

“There you are,” sneered Glenn as he sat down in front of Dimitri. “How come you’re still alive and I’m dead?”

Dimitri blinked in shock, then tried to force his eyes to focus, to block out, as Glenn materialized into his younger brother Felix, sitting before him with his own tray but still looking at him with the same expression of disgust. “Felix. A good day to you, as well.”

“You didn’t even hear what I just said, did you? I don’t have time for this...” grumbled Felix as he made to stand and take his meal elsewhere.

“No! Please, I am sorry, I was merely...lost in thought,” apologized Dimitri. “Please, sit with me and talk.”

Felix sighed and relented. Resuming his seat, he told Dimitri, “I was saying you need to tell me what you know of those mercenaries that saved you. Turns out they’re now teaching the Golden Deer.”

“Who? Lady Byleth?” said Dimitri in surprise.

“No, she opted to become a Knight of Seiros. Typical. But Claude’s House Professor is now her father, Jeralt the Blade-Breaker,” said Felix, eyeing Dimitri closely. “You saw him in battle the other day, didn’t you?”

“I...I did, but not extensively,” Dimitri allowed. “He fought from horseback, with a well-trained war stallion beneath him, and fell on the bandits as they tried to flee the village. Most of them fell with cloven heads or missing arms to his broadsword. He appeared quite worthy of his reputation.”

“Hmph. Fighting from horseback gives you an advantage in combat, but only if your animal isn’t attacked,” muttered Felix, eating a bite. “Supposedly there was a mage he killed as well?”

Dimitri nodded. “I did not see the magic-user, but only magic could have blown a large hole in Remire’s modest walls,” the Prince said, stirring his stew with his spoon. “Lady Byleth and her father anticipated the villain’s movements, and arranged for a false retreat on horseback to turn into a quick charge on his isolated position. Lady Byleth’s stepmother, Lady Beatrix, is a spellcaster herself, and managed to negate any retaliation as the Captain killed the blackguard.”

“Interesting. Defensive magic protecting a warrior to let them do their job. Professor Hannemann has mentioned that before,” said Felix in appreciation. “What about--?”

“Hey, hey, if it isn’t the training ground zombies, out for a bite,” said a redhead man in an open jacket, sitting down next to Felix. “I swear I only see you guys at mealtimes. If that.”

Felix ignored the man and simply continued eating, but Dimitri paused to politely greet the newcomer. “Good day, Sylvain. I swear I only see you pursuing women...rather unsuccessfully, I might add.”

Sylvain’s handsome face grinned. “Ah, well, my string of tragic and completely faultless failures is coming to an end. The harder the chase, the greater the prize, as they say. And I couldn’t help but notice a certain blue haired beauty watching us the other day...”

Felix gave a groaning sigh, and Dimitri pointed his utensil towards his old friend as told Sylvain sternly, “You had better not be talking about who I think you are talking about....”

Sylvain laughed and said, “Oh my, does the Prince actually want to make a competing claim? I mean, she did get injured saving you, from what I heard. It’s your call, Prince Dimitri, you can stop me now if you want to. Otherwise, I’m cutting loose for a midnight rendezvous in Garreg Mach Cathedral.”

Even Felix was shocked enough to speak out at that innuendo. “You’re not going to try to seduce a knight-elect during their vigil in the cathedral, are you?” he said with a mix of amazed revulsion on his face. “That’s...that’s…”

“Utterly romantic if you think about it,” winked Sylvain. “After all, it just might be her last chance to be with a man before she swears her holy vows to only be true to Lady Rhea and the Goddess. Just picture it...it’s midnight and she’ll be lonely, sighing as she stares forlornly up at the altar, thinking of all her missed chances…then I step from the shadows, mourning that such beauty is about to be taken from the world...she smiles eagerly and invites me to join her on the floor…”

“Where’s Ingrid?” Dimitri abruptly asked.

Sylvain blinked as he paused in his lurid fantasy. “What? Oh, I dunno...I guess she went with the others to see Lord Seteth administer the liturgy of knighthood in the Cathedral…”

“Then let me inform you of something, Sylvain, as your future King. You have a choice. The first is that you can go and tell Ingrid everything you have just told Felix and me.”

“What?! No way, man, I mean...Prince Dimitri. She’ll slap the crap out of my face!”

“She will. Your other choice, however, is for _me_ to slap your face,” grated Dimitri, his eyes burning. “The Lady Byleth was injured while providing me assistance in battle. She has been nothing but friendly and courteous and kind to me since. She is under my protection. And if you speak of her in such a manner again...then I will _punch_ you in the face. Do I make myself clear?”

Sylvain thought it over briefly. Very briefly. He sighed bitterly as he got up to leave. “Fine, fine. I can take a subtle hint, Your Highness. You could have just said something…”

Dimitri glared at Sylvain the entire time until he left the room, making sure the other man knew he was serious in his intent. Doing so, he was slow to notice Felix examining him, an unreadable expression on his face. Dimitri gruffly took another tasteless morsel into his mouth, annoyed by the scrutiny. “Yes--?” he said shortly to Felix.

Felix’s eyes hardened at Dimitri. “The woman Byleth... _you_ injured her, didn’t you? Because you were a careless beast. And all that drama with Sylvain was just your guilty conscience talking, right?”

Dimitri did not answer.

“That’s what I thought. Excuse me. I didn’t know I was eating at the pig trough. I’ll leave you alone to fatten yourself up,” Felix snarled and left.

Dimitri resumed chewing in silence, alone again, his meal half-done. He was almost finished. It was almost over. Then he could go train, and exert his body, and avoid…

King Lambert sat before his son, a bloody gash dripping across his throat and a look of hate and revulsion on his face. “So this is what you do all day. Eat, sleep, and think of girls, while I cry out for vengeance! When will you avenge my death, my son?”

Dimitri gazed fixedly at the empty chair before him, mindlessly chewing. He was giving his body, a machine for killing, the fuel it needed to become even better at what it did. What it was made to do.

“Soon,” he whispered.

*

“...and will you renounce the forces of wickedness in this world, that tempted even King Nemesis to darkness, and swear to be true the Words of Seiros?” chanted Seteth.

“I will,” said the blue haired woman in white robes kneeling before him.

“Hey guys,” whispered Sylvain, scooting into a pew. “Mind if I sit with you?”

Both Annette and Mercedes nodded and smiled, and Ashe looked enraptured at the scene before them, but Ingrid favored Sylvain with an annoyed scowl. “What are you doing here? This is the last place I expected you to be,” she crossly whispered.

“Ah, well, long story,” said Sylvain, sotto voice. Ingrid gave him another suspicious glance but looked forward to pay attention to the knighthood ceremony.

It was as boring as Sylvain had feared. Seteth droned on, asking questions about this or that, will you be true, will you be faithful, will you be charitable and dutiful and honest and defend the weak. The woman called Byleth bore it up well, stoically answering each question in a clear voice, while Catherine and an unfamiliar man that must be her father, the new Golden Deer professor, stood behind her as her sponsors into the Knights of Seiros. There were readings from the Book of Seiros. There were hymns written by Saint Indech and by Saint Cichol. Sylvain thought with annoyance that he wouldn’t mind attending Church services with Seteth leading them if only the man didn’t appear to be so smug and joyous during the entire event.

Desperate for distraction, Sylvain tried to surreptitiously cran his neck and scan the rest of the occupants of the pews while Ingrid was distracted by a prayer. He saw the lime green mass of curls that was Seteth’s sister in the front...no surprise there...as well as Ferdinand, Dorothea, and Professor Manuela nearby. Probably just wanted an excuse to sing. Looking in the opposite rows, he saw Lorenz, Ignatz, and Lysethia...typical crowd...but then with a start noted Leonie, as well as Claude of all people next to them. That was a surprise. Claude and Leonie skipped services almost as much as he did.

When the congregation stood for the closing hymn, where the procession would exit to leave the knight-elect alone at the altar to begin their holy vigil, Sylvain glanced behind himself while pretending to stretch. He only caught a glimpse of silver hair and black hair on pale faces, but it was enough. Wow, he thought. Even Edelgard and Hubert showed up for this one, and they were almost religiously irreligious, like most nobles of the Empire. This mercenary girl--Byleth--must have really made an impression on all three house leaders. FInally, mercifully, Seteth gave the closing blessing and they were done, except for the blue haired woman in white robes who still knelt before the altar with her sword, her back to all of them.

Mercedes smiled at the beaming Ashe and Ingrid as they left the nave of the cathedral. “What a lovely ceremony!” she said quietly. “It’s always touching to see someone dedicate their lives to the Divine, and try to be a bridge between the physical and spiritual.”

“It was fantastic,” sighed Ashe in wonder. “Imagine being found worthy of such honor, such recognition--!”

“I agree with Mercie,” said Ingrid. “While it is an honor, the true test of knighthood is pursuing the ideal, while knowing it will always be out of reach.”

“I think I know what you mean,” said Annette excitedly by Mercedes. “It’s like when no matter how hard you work, there will always be more to do! But as long as you never give up, you still manage to succeed.”

“What did you think, Sylvain?” Mercedes asked sweetly as they walked across the monastery bridge.

Sylvain considered his earlier thoughts about the vigil ceremony, and tried to hide his blush. “Well, ah, I thought it was great. Really. A beautiful young woman, dedicating her life to endless combat and toil and strife. A dream come true, for sure,” he said with bare sarcasm.

“Oh, come now, don’t be facetious. It’s her decision to make that choice. Why does it upset you?” inquired Mercedes, her smile gone. For Mercedes, this was the equivalent of a storming frown.

“Probably because he’s sad he’s lost access to another woman he can’t shamelessly flirt with like a rutting dog,” declared Ingrid with a toss of her blonde hair. “He’s only disappointed because he’s lost the opportunity to humiliate and disrespect her.”

“What? No! No, it’s not that!” protested Sylvain. “Who’s prejudging who, now?”

“Then what’s wrong with it?” asked Ashe, his face boyishly curious. Sylvain thought for a moment as they walked before replying.

“Ah, well, I dunno, there’s something sad about it. Maybe I did start thinking about it that way because of her gender, but it’s tragic when you think about it, that some people have to dedicate their lives to be so good, just because there’s so many people out there that are just the opposite. It’s almost like...a funeral, I guess, or even a wake. We’re celebrating someone giving up everything except duty and fighting just so the rest of us can be a little bit safer and enjoy life. They can never be one of the crowd again because of what they’re sacrificing, and we honor them to keep that commitment.”

Sylvain stopped walking as he realized he was talking to nothing but empty air. He turned around to see his classmates standing completely still, staring at him with varying degrees of amazement.

Annette finally looked at the others. “I swear, he does it on purpose.”

Ingrid resumed walking past Sylvain and said with a hint of bitterness, “He can’t, he doesn’t have enough self-awareness to do so in the first place.” Annette and Ashe followed, with Ashe saying, “I guess he’s social enough to have some insight into human nature...” as the trio entered the Great Hall.

Sylvain was befuddled by the reaction of his classmates. He looked back to Mercedes, who was still nearby and rubbing her eyes. “Mercedes? Did I say something wrong?”

She smiled at him, although it was mixed with a tremendous sadness as well. “No, Sylvain. What you said was right, and beautiful. It was just...it was like I got to see the real you for the first time,” she said softly.

“Real? I’m as real as it gets, Mercie!” he joked. Looking around, Sylvain said, “In fact, now that we’re alone and church is over...maybe we could grab a real dinner? It’ll be a special treat for you and me to spend some time together.”

Mercedes sighed. “And he’s gone again.”

Sylvain was trying to decide if he was being insulted, but Mercedes walked past him, saying “Whenever you get tired of playing games, Sylvain...I would like to meet that man again one day.”

The heir to House Gautier stood alone on the bridge in the afternoon sun. He looked up to the sky.

“Yep. Definitely being insulted.”

*

“You know, she will be alone in the Cathedral. It will just be a matter of disposing of the body and cleaning the bloodstains…”

“Hubert, this discussion is tiresome. My answer is no. We will not risk discovery when we are so close to achieving our goals,” responded Edelgard.

“Then why are we here?” asked Professor Jeritza, with lazy menace behind his white mask. It was evening at the monastery, and nearly everyone was either in the dining hall or preparing to retire to bed. They were alone in the dark monastery graveyard. 

Edelgard stopped in her thoughtful pacing to consider the man. A useful acquisition from the fallen House Bartels in the Empire, Jeritza was a nearly peerless warrior whose ability to use the Crest Gem, the Rafail Necklace, made him nearly invulnerable to conventional weaponry. Not that he worried much about defense in the first place. It was hard to do so when many of your opponents were felled by your first, and only, strike. Unfortunately, such expertise had also made him rather one dimensional; the man was almost literally unable to think of anything other than combat and death.

The plan to place him as the head Professor of the Golden Deer House had failed. Edelgard briefly worried if Rhea was trying to subtly counter the moves against her from behind the scenes, but shook her head at her imagination going wild. The reptile was anything but subtle. If Rhea had any idea of what was planned against her, she and Hubert would already be sliding down her gizzard. But now Jeritza did need a new mission goal, or he could lose focus, and start killing for simple enjoyment of it again.

“Jeritza. You will keep your current occupation as a Combat Instructor here at the monastery. When you judge the moment ripe, kill the remaining fools from Kostas’ group in the dungeons with an unmarked blade and clumsy blows. You must remain free of suspicion. In the meantime, take the measure of Jeralt and his group of mercenaries and...Byleth,” Edelgard said with reluctance. “Since they are no longer within my...our...sphere of influence, we must be prepared to act accordingly. But only at my command. Do you hear?”

“The Blade-Breaker and his daughter…” murmured Jeritza, with a feral glint behind the eyes of his mask. He bowed in gratitude, his pale blonde ponytail shining in the moonlight . “Yes, it is possible they might be worthy. I hear and understand, Your Imperial Highness,” he said, then took his leave for the training grounds.

Edelgard turned to see Hubert looking at her rather directly, with arms folded as he stood tall above her. She looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. “What is it, Hubert?” she said in an irritated voice.

“You are not thinking clearly, my future Empress,” he said bluntly, with an apologetic bow. “You have commanded me to speak my mind in all matters. But you may not wish to hear what I have to say to you now.”

Edelgard turned her back to him, but only said, “Say on, Hubert.”

“You are becoming distracted,” whispered Hubert in his sibilant voice. “You care for that mercenary, and have developed feelings for her...possibly against your will, but they are there just the same. But now, after her vigil tonight, she will become a Knight of Seiros , one of your enemies. You must force yourself to accept this.”

“And I will!” Edelgard snapped, still not looking at him. “Remember to whom you are speaking, Hubert,” lowering her voice, husky with strong emotion. “While you were being instructed in your own role as the future Count Vestra, I was being forged into something beyond even your experience. I was forced to become the Flame Emperor, and I think I have demonstrated beyond doubt that I am capable of _anything_ to achieve my goals.”

“As you say, my Lady Edelgard. I am merely warning you that you will be called upon to demonstrate such conviction again. Not just once. Or twice. But always and constantly, as we follow you on the path you blaze for the Empire.”

Edelgard said nothing for a long moment. “I...understand, Hubert. Thank you for your wisdom, and for reminding me of my duty. Now...I believe...it is time for me to retire for the evening,” she said, still not looking at him. She turned and ascended the stone staircase from the graveyard to the monastery proper.

Hubert stood in the graveyard for some while, contemplating the headstones. When he judged it time, he slowly moved to the edge of the graveyard terrace, where a steep drop guarded by a stone barrier lay. It afforded him a clear view of the Cathedral in the distance, and the pale small figure in red walking across the ancient stone bridge into it.

Ah, Lady Edelgard, thought Hubert with a slight mental rebuke. This infatuation could not have come at a worse time. And so, he thought grimly, it falls to House Vestra to defend House Hresvelg once more. Even from the most pernicious and deadly poison of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnn.
> 
> Also, you may have noticed I added a Saint. This is Flayn's unnamed mother. She is a full blooded Nabatean (since Flayn appears to be a full blooded Nabatean IMO).
> 
> I hoped you liked these character interactions. More to come!


	10. The Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No masters or kings when the ritual begins  
> There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin  
> In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene  
> Only then I am human  
> Only then I am clean  
> Amen, Amen, Amen
> 
> Hozirer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard to write, but I tried to add some spit and polish.
> 
> Some dialogue balloons that happen only late in game are popped early. Beware.
> 
> Also, a stab at a semi-justified reason for why Byleth and Edelgard are so attracted to one another.

Ch 10

The Vigil

Byleth’s knees ached.

The cushion helped for the first hour or two, but eventually even it started to chafe her skin, even through the soft woolen smoothness of her white sacred robe. It was now nearing late evening, and Byleth wondered how she was going to be able to stand or fight again if her stance was compromised. She tried to relax and clench various muscles in sequence to avoid cramping, but then ceased her flexing when she felt her full bladder protest inside of her. No one had told her where a night pot might be in the Cathedral, and she had forgotten to ask for directions to one. She looked at the altar, illuminated by the five large glowing candles, representing the five saints of the Church, that had begun to shine in her eyes, making the rest of the empty Cathedral appear as a soundless black void. Surely Sothis would forgive her if she laid down her sword, very quietly, and got up to go outside…

“Hey,” echoed a whisper from the darkness. Byleth twisted in surprise at the voice, trying to get up and raise her sword on guard at the same time. Her stiff muscles betrayed her as her legs refused to function, forcing Byleth to drop her sword in mid-turn with a clatter that thundered like an orchestra of cymbals in the dark cathedral.

Edelgard strolled forward into range of the candlelight, amused in spite of the woman’s rejection of her. “You are going to be the clumsiest Knight of Seiros in history if you keep that up,” she said in a normal voice, the air of the cathedral still ringing in reverberations.

Byleth stood slowly, rubbing her knees through her white robes. “Your--I mean...Edelgard. I’m sorry, you surprised me. What are you doing here? I don’t want you to get into trouble,” she half-whispered, not wanting to raise her voice. The empty cathedral magnified any sound to a seemingly deafening roar.

Edelgard didn’t answer Byleth directly, instead moving past her to look at the altar, with the golden and ivory Symbol of Saint Seiros atop of it. “So you chose her after all,” she said, not looking at Byleth.

Byleth felt her skin grow cold as she shook her head. She swallowed past a suddenly dry mouth. “Edelgard...I’m sorry. Lady Rhea didn’t give me much of a choice. I wasn’t allowed to become a student with you. Seteth said I was too experienced.” Edelgard looked back at her angrily, but Byleth tried to finish. “I don’t even know if I want to become a Knight,” she finished lamely, looking at the white ornamental robes on her body.

“It’s a little late now,” said Edelgard in an obvious tone, her face still locked into a scowl.

“I know. But I had to accept,” appealed Byleth to her, her eyes wide. “I wanted to be able to stay here...somehow...and I thought that this was the best way I could do it.”

Edelgard’s anger was leaving her slowly, making her appear small and sad. “Was there really no other way than this?” she asked, almost pleading.

“I’m...not sure,” Byleth said, stung by Edelgard’s disapproval. “I knew I didn’t want to become a Professor, and they couldn’t let me be a student…”

“Wait. What did you say? They offered for you to become...a Professor? Of the Golden Deer House?” exclaimed Edelgard in shock.

Byleth shook her head quickly. “Oh no! They said I could have a choice of any House,” she said. “I...I couldn’t decide. It was just too big of a job. I only know how to fight with a sword, and some hand to hand combat and wrestling.” Byleth grimaced as if she had eaten something foul. “I don’t know anything about Crests, or nobles, or magic or healing. I know how to ride horses and do some lance work, I guess…”

“That’s...astonishing,” said Edelgard with unfeigned interest. “So Rhea wanted you as her first choice? To be a Professor? Of any House? And you’re just...twenty-one, is that correct?”

“That’s what she said,” Byleth shrugged. “I thought it was strange too. Seteth seemed mad at the idea. Even my Dad told me later he thought it was better that I become a Knight. They said that it was the only way I could continue to see students.” She turned to face Edelgard directly. “I’m sorry if it makes you mad. But...I thought Rhea wouldn’t let me talk to you again if I didn’t…”

“No,” Edelgard said slowly, looking tired suddenly. She sat down on the altar steps. “You are right. I cannot be not angry with you, Byleth. I am simply...upset at the situation. We let ourselves be lulled into a childish fantasy.”

Byleth’s knees creaked as she sat next to Edelgard, feeling comfort in her warmth nearby. “I’m still your friend, Edelgard...if you want me to be. We may not see each other as much as we may want, but I’ll request my service to be placed with the Black Eagles. Rhea seems to like me.”

“Now, there is an offer that is hard to refuse,” said Edelgard, smiling at her. “My own personal Knight of Seiros, at my command. What shall I order you to do first?”

Byleth felt more at ease with the teasing joke and smile from her friend. It made her feel weak and loose, but in a nice way. “Well, I could ask Lady Rhea to assign me to be your bodyguard. Your loyal Hubert can’t be by your side all the time. But I can,” she said, feeling very odd to be joking with a friend in the enormous dark cathedral, while she was supposed to be on a silent sacred vigil until morning. But it felt much too fun to stop.

“You are incorrigible!” chuckled Edelgard in the dim light. “So much for your sacred vows as a Knight. But...I am pleased you are so at ease with me. You don’t treat me like I’m made of glass, or constantly remind me that great things are expected of me. It is a refreshing change of pace.”

“I’m just…” Byleth wondered at herself, and what these strange sensations in her mind and body actually were. “I guess...um, oh, I know. You mentioned something about auras, when we first met in Remire. You said I had one to you. Well...I guess what I’m trying to say is...you have one for me, too.”

Edelgard sat quietly at that, seemingly lost in thought. Byleth took the opportunity to admire her friend in the candlelight, wondering at her past, wondering what unique noble burdens she was considering and calculating. She was three and a half years younger than Byleth, but so serious and formal that Byleth was sure she was hiding scars. Dimitri had said something about an insurrection...and her father, the Emperor. And now she’s afraid of something, Byleth realized, but it must be so outside of her own experience she could hardly guess what it was.

“Byleth,” said Edelgard eventually, looking away. “I want to privately tell you something about myself, so you might realize why it is so difficult for me to accept you as a Knight of Seiros. Will you listen, and keep this secret to yourself?”

Byleth said, “Always,” as she rose to her feet, grateful for the release in her stiff muscles, raising up a startled Edelgard by her hand. “But let’s not do it here. Let’s go outside.”

Edelgard stared at her. “But there’s no one here. Why go outside?”

Byleth’s face became pained, the strain finally getting to her, and she whispered to the younger woman, “I need to piss like a horse.”

*

Edelgard was still chortling when Byleth rejoined her, too relieved to even care. They stood outside the Cathedral, near the Goddess Tower and on the battlements that overlooked the mountains to the west, leaning against the crenulated walls and staring at the infinite starlit sky above, with the dark and dim earth below. For long moments, each said nothing, occasionally stealing looks but mostly content to simply share the night together, hearing the softness of the wind and trees play counterpoint to the moaning warm springtime gusts through the stone barbicans and gates of the monastery.

Eventually Byleth stirred and said, “Thank you for visiting me tonight.”

Edelgard sighed and looked away in the dim light. “It was not intended to be a visit. Not at first. I was going to yell at you for abandoning me. I wanted to tell you to never talk to me again, that you hurt me by picking the Knights over the Black Eagles of Adrestia, and that you would regret that. While walking over the bridge to the cathedral, I rejected you a hundred times over in my thoughts. I was expecting tears, screaming, even blows. I wanted to do anything to end our new friendship. I...I thought it for the best.”

Byleth suddenly found air difficult. “Then...what changed your mind?”

“You did,” confided Edelgard, with a shy glance that clearly had an effect on the ex-mercenary. “I wanted to fight, but you were just...yourself. Completely without guile...if still a little clumsy,” she teasingly added. “But you just want my approval, to still be my friend, to even be my Knight...I cannot be angry with that. It’s quite touching, if I may be honest. It has been...a very long time since I have had anyone treat me like that.”

Edelgard could feel more than see Byleth turn her face to her. “I’m sorry. It seems all I do is bring up bad memories for you.”

“No, they are not...not all bad,” Edelgard tried to say clearly. “In fact, you remind me of how I felt when I had good memories. Before...”

“You don’t have to tell me about all that,” said Byleth firmly, now stern. “If it’s noble stuff, you really don’t. I don’t want you to complicate your life or make you feel sad just because you met me.”

Edelgard thought her heart couldn’t ache any more. She was wrong. Oh, Byleth, my sweet fool, you have. The proud Imperial Princess mastered herself slowly. Maybe...maybe she could still thread this needle, still untie this bag of knots she had unwittingly created for herself. She took a deep breath and began speaking.

“Very well. However I was going to tell you my secret, Byleth. Perhaps it is not appropriate for me to share this with a knight-elect on the night of their Holy Vigil. But you should know that the Church has many secrets. Dark secrets. They have burned or confiscated countless books to hide the truth about their origins and the origins of the nobility. They have even killed scholars who have accidently discovered the truth in their research. But as the heir to the Empire of Adrestia, I have learned much of what the Church tries to hide. What Rhea tries to hide.”

Her companion absorbed this quietly in the darkness. “So you’re mad at the Church for keeping secrets?” Byleth finally asked.

“In part,” Edelgard answered. “But I am more angry to know that the Empire...that Fodlan itself...suffers because of the system they keep in place. A system of nobles and secret cardinals controlling common people, just because they have Crest bloodlines, and commoners do not. My dream, when I am finally Empress, is for individuals to be placed in positions of authority and trust because they are worthy and conscientious, not simply because of who had noble parents or grandparents. ”

“But you’re a noble with a Crest, too. You’re the heiress of the Empire. You’re going to take the throne and control people...to make them stop being controlled?”

The Princess shortly laughed at that. “It does seem like a contradiction, doesn’t it? But without the power to fulfill my dreams, that’s all that they will remain. So I must use my own title, my own position, to try and help common people...like you...be recognized for your ability. I would like for you...a capable person without a Crest...to share that dream with me. To help other common girls feel that they can be friends with a noble, and for that artificial barrier to be forgotten like the ancient relic that it is. But if you are part of the Knights of Seiros, then you become a part of a system, a part of an army, supporting something I abhor.”

Byleth was silent for a moment. “I think I understand,” she said quietly. “It’s like when my Dad and I fought against another mercenary troop in Gloucester territory. They had helped us put down bandits and pirates in Hyrm territory the year before that. We had fought together, lived together, ate together...but the next year we had accepted new contracts, and suddenly we were on different sides. So we had to fight. And kill. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

“Precisely, my friend. I would like to stay on the same side with you, Byleth,” Edelgard said softly, wondering if she was being too obvious for even the commoner to notice.

“We will,” said the mercenary turned Knight, her tone ringing with faith. “We’re friends now, Edelgard. Friends never change sides.”

Edelgard smiled gratefully, “Then you should know that the Church…”

“But I also agree with what you said at first,” interrupted Byleth, acting strangely assertive. “Maybe it’s not appropriate now. Maybe you shouldn’t try to drive a wedge between me and the Church tonight. If their lies are as bad as you say, it will become obvious to everyone, won’t it?”

“But this is a lie that has existed for a thousand years, Byleth,” Edelgard said now in earnest appeal. “Wicked men like the nobles who supplanted my father support it, as well as the blind noble fools of the Kingdom, and the selfish, petty nobles of the Alliance. They are lies that are the stone foundations of the Church, embedded into the Book of Seiros itself. Lies they made you repeat, today, during the knighthood ceremony.”

The Princess could sense Byleth becoming agitated. “What sort of lies were those? I wanted to help people and agreed to that. I can be true and charitable. That’s easy. But I wasn’t listening to Seteth all the way through, if I’m being completely honest.”

Edelgard felt a surge of triumph and pleasure. Her plan to convert this powerful mercenary might actually work. “Well, Seteth lied about the history of the Church, such as Nemesis and the Ten Elites, the progenitors of the noble system. And the true origins of their power.”

“Oh, that,” said Byleth dismissively, looking at the stars. “I just assumed they’d just gotten their history wrong at some point. I think it’s understandable, though. People wouldn’t want Crests so badly if they knew where they really came from, right?”

The silence in the darkness lasted long. Byleth turned her head to look at the shadow of her friend. “Edelgard--?”

“Y--yes, I’m here, Byleth,” said Edelgard, her equilibrium still shattered. This mercenary knew! She somehow was privy to the darkest, deadliest secrets of the Church, and of the nobility of Fodlan. At once Edelgard revised her plans. Hubert undoubtedly wanted the woman dead, and Edelgard had been almost reluctantly ready to agree to the necessity. She bitterly remembered her last lesson from her Lord Uncle: a Flame Emperor cannot be distracted by love. And then had personally forced Edelgard to kill it, to extinguish it from her life.

But this revelation changed everything. Byleth, the Knight of Seiros, her friend, must live, because she might be a source of vital knowledge or power. Edelgard was convinced she had accidentally stumbled onto a new facet of the Central Church’s history. Her father Jeralt had left the Church; had he inadvertently stumbled onto the truth about Rhea, and fled for his life? But then why return with his daughter, and allow her to become a Knight in turn? Why confide to her this dark secret? And why was Rhea allowing her to roam free, to say these secrets to anyone? Had she told Claude? Or even Dimitri? Edelgard slowly mastered her speculating thoughts, focusing on the here and now. She had been silent too long, and Byleth was no doubt curious about her reaction.

“So,” the Princess eventually asked, “I see you know all of this, yet still wish to swear to the Church?”

“I don’t know,” Byleth admitted after a silence. “It’s a way to stay here with you...along with Claude and Dimitri, and all of your friends. I get to help protect all of you and help teach. My family thinks we need to be here, for now.” She sighed. “Maybe you’re right as well, and the Church is full of secrets and lies. But we can help change that, right?”

“What if the Church...if Rhea...doesn’t want to change?” challenged Edelgard.

Byleth shrugged, even though Edelgard could hardly see it. “My dad left the Church. I’m sure he had a good reason.”

Edelgard chuckled at that in the darkness, and said, “Well, at least you are planning to keep your mercenary attitude going into the Knights. I suppose that is the most I can hope for at the moment. Although you must keep what I revealed secret. From anyone, including your father. Or our friendship ends at this moment.”

Byleth reached out, clumsily, to touch her friend’s hand. She grabbed Edelgard’s uniformed arm, and slowly moving her hand across it until she could clasp her gloved fingers, the contact sending thrills. “I, Byleth Eisner, Knight of Seiros, do swear to keep the secrets of my friend Edelgard von Hresvelg, until she releases me from my oath.”

Edelgard squeezed the fingers of her friend’s hand in turn. “I accept your oath, Byleth Eisner,” said the Princess, feeling overjoyed by this turn of events. She had done it. Byleth belonged to her now, and not to some preening dragon leading a cult...

In the dark, with stars spinning above them, holding the heat of Byleth’s hand, Edelgard suddenly felt like a young child again, when the past was inconsequential and the future limited only by imagination. She felt a pressure in her lungs and suddenly was breathing deep gulps of air, smiling for the simple joy of it. She could tell her friend--her Knight now, not Rhea’s!--felt similarly excited, if the strong trembling grip on her hand was any indication. Suddenly Byleth spoke again. “May I tell you a secret, Edelgard? It’s a secret about who I am. But please keep it to yourself.”

Edelgard tried to control her interest, wondering if this might lead to the information she sought. “Very well. You have my word, as the heiress of the Empire, that I will keep your secret.”

“Thank you,” said Byleth, pausing for a moment. Edelgard could almost see the woman try to coalesce her thoughts, forming a narrative that might provide valuable information. She did the best she could to cool her excitement while they were still shyly holding hands.

Slowly Byleth started to speak. “Edelgard...I’m...not like most people. I had a...condition...while I was growing up in Remire. I still have it. It made it hard for me to relate to others, since I couldn’t act the same way that they did. They would make repetitive barking noises, or show their teeth, or scrunch up their face and make water from their eyes. I didn’t know what any of it was.” Byleth took a breath. “Over time, I learned by habit. The noises were laughing, the teeth was usually a smile, and the water from the eyes was crying and sadness. But I still have difficulty doing anything like that myself.”

Edelgard stirred at this information, slightly disappointed but still interested. “You always did appear to be a master of your expression. I assumed it was just a stoic mask to hide your emotions.”

“A mask, yes. But I can’t control it. Or help it. After I grew older, my father and Trips...ah, I mean Beatrix... told me I would have to tell people how I was feeling, since they couldn’t tell by my face. But that was easy, since I usually felt nothing like how they were telling me it would feel. I guess that’s why I trained so much. It was easier to know what getting stronger was, or feeling tired, or hungry, or hot or cold. But all the emotions...the inside feeling stuff...I just couldn’t do it. Or find it.”

“You cared for your family and friends, surely?” said Edelgard slowly, already toying with this revelation in her mind.

“I...think so. I want to be around them. It’s fun to think of jokes, or make faces. I like to be around them. I want to defend them and I know they’ll defend me. I’m used to it and comfortable with it.” Now Byleth swallowed. “But you...I’m sorry. But...being with you makes me feel the inside things. I think. I’m not sure. I’ve never felt like this in my life.”

Edelgard forced herself to full attentiveness, slowly realizing in shame and horror what Byleth was trying to reveal. She wanted to let go of Byleth’s hand, but could not. Instead she said in a weak voice, “Tell me, Byleth. Tell me all of it.”

“I...want to see you when you’re gone away from me. I’m always grateful when you’re with me. I want to protect you, even though I know you don’t need it or want it. I’m worried you’ll leave me behind without telling me why. It’s...confusing to me. And...um...it makes it hard to think. Or say the right things. Often. And sometimes I feel warm on my face. Or cold on my skin. Do you feel those things?”

Edelgard did, but she reigned them in tightly and ruthlessly. “Sometimes,” she allowed, forcing her voice to firmness.

“Good,” said Byleth, sounding more relaxed and confident. “Maybe you can tell me what they are one day. Because I think you’re the only friend I have who can.”

Edelgard was feeling shaken to her core, still fascinated by a mixture of pity and horror at Byleth’s self-discovery. “I...I do not think that is wise, Byleth. I am hardly an expert in such matters.”

Byleth shrugged in careless ignorance. “I don’t think you need to be. You just need to be normal compared to me. But it’s now very late, Edelgard,” she said, looking up at the sky. “I may have to stay up all night, but you don’t. You should get some sleep.” She let her hand drop from Edelgard’s, slowly, reluctantly.

“It is of no consequence,” said Edelgard, struggling to maintain her mask. “Sleep provides little rest for me. But you are right that I should return to my room.”

They walked slowly in the darkness together, moving through the massive cathedral door they had cracked open, reentering the dimly lit nave, the five candles on the altar burning low in their wicks.

As Byleth walked back to her place by the altar, where her sword lay nearby her knee cushion, Edelgard cursed herself but had to ask. She had to know now. “Byleth...do you know what love is?”

Byleth stared at the Princess without comprehension, then her eyes widened. “Oh, that. Trips explained it to me. Is that when two people take off their clothes and lie down like--”

“No, Byleth! No. That’s not what it is. Not all of it,” said Edelgard, shaking her head rapidly, cutting off the poor simple girl. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, laying a white gloved hand over her eyes. She felt the stirrings of a headache starting as she said, “You really do have a condition, don’t you? I was hoping for a moment that you were joking.”

Byleth shook her blue mane. “I wouldn’t joke about something like that, Edelgard. Not with you. I guess you see now why I need your help.”

“Yes,” murmured Edelgard sadly. “I do. Good night...my friend. I will see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Edelgard. Thank you for spending time with me,” said Byleth, bowing. She turned to collect her sword and resume her place before the faintly glowing altar.

The Imperial princess walked blindly back through the darkness, moving quickly away from the unfortunate woman she left behind at the altar. She bumped into the cathedral doors and quickly opened and closed them, not wanting Byleth to hear her break down.

Byleth had fallen for her. Byleth...that strange, solemn mercenary...had fallen in love with her, Edelgard von Hresvelg... _and she didn’t even know it_. Edelgard wasn’t manipulating Byleth’s emotions as she had thought; she was literally creating them for her, who had never felt them before, and she enjoyed the new sensation of “inside” feelings so much that she probably would willingly let Edelgard continue to do so until the end of her days.

It was too overwhelming. It was too much innocence, too much naive, childlike trust that was suddenly and unexpectedly thrust into Edelgard’s cold and calculating hands. It opened up memories and emotions the Imperial Princess thought locked away forever, buried under a pragmatic iron will that focused only on the concrete, on results and nothing else.

Her Uncle had tried to make certain of that. Had tried to forge away her weakness. And it had worked, until the Flame Emperor had met a wide eyed, blue haired, trusting woman who had saved her life, saved her from her own ill-intentioned plans, then stepped easily through her masks and defenses like they were not even there.

Edelgard paced up the dark stone stairs slowly, each footfall sounding like an accusing thud of damnation. Byleth loved her. Byleth just wanted Edelgard to teach her how to feel. Just wanted to be her friend. Just wanted to protect her after saving her life.

And in return, Edelgard had been making plans to kill her.

She was finally back to her room on the second floor dormitory. She closed the thick wooden door behind her, locking the latch quickly, and finally let her own emotions, her “inside feelings” reign as she slid down to the cool stone floor.

Hating herself for the hot tears, hating that sweet foolish woman-child, hating her Uncle, hating Rhea, and hating life itself, the Imperial Princess of Adrestia sat curled up in a ball on the floor by her dormitory door.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You make me feel emotions, El!" So kind of a twist on this trope. Edelgard doesn't realize what she's doing until she's too late.
> 
> Also, I know some people love their Iron Maiden Els. Note I'm trying to keep her in character by only having her break down in private. Which we know she does, canonically with the nightmares (and Byleth is totally creeping past El's door at night).
> 
> Anyway, lots of dialogue balloons popped, and nothing but Edeleth here, so the next will be more Claude and Dimitri.


	11. The Peerage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Masquerade! Paper faces on parade . . .  
> Masquerade! Hide your face, so the world will never find you!  
> Masquerade! Every face a different shade . . .  
> Masquerade! Look around - there's another mask behind you!  
> Flash of mauve . . .  
> Splash of puce . . .  
> Fool and king . . .  
> Ghoul and goose . . .  
> Green and black . . .  
> Queen and priest . . .  
> Trace of rouge . . .  
> Face of beast . . .  
> Faces . . .  
> \--
> 
> Phantom of the Opera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's a plot in here. Somewhere. I think. (It's the Crests not me!)
> 
> Some rare-pair support interactions inside, along with some normal ones with a new twist.

Ch 11

The Peerage

The Holy Sword of Seiros, gleaming in the light of the noon-lit Cathedral, bounced off of Byleth’s shoulder.

“You are now Lady Byleth Eisner, Sanctified Knight of Seiros. Join your peers, Lady Byleth,” announced Lady Rhea in a triumphant voice that rang throughout the cathedral.

A thunderous cheer and applause sounded out before Byleth could even rise and turn to face the crowd. She was dressed in gleaming white chain and leather armor, complete with a white cloak with the red Symbol of Seiros, provided and customized for her by the Knights, after trading in her simple white robe after the end of her vigil this morning. It felt good on her body, but she knew it would take time to get used to the heavier weight of the chain links on her shoulders. Her tired eyes sought out her mercenary friends in the pews, proudly clapping and whooping and waving, trying to show her how happy they were for her. She gave them a smile and a nod, then looked to another pew to see the House Leaders with their professors, including her father, Trips, and Zarad standing next to a whistling Claude. A drawn and hollow-cheeked Edelgard was politely clapping next to a white robed woman--Professor Manuela, Byleth recalled--and a masked man with bleached hair...Professor Jeritza. She felt a stab in her mind over Edelgard’s haggard appearance, and mentally noted to talk to her friend to take care of herself. Dimitri was smiling and clapping for her as well, next to a grey haired man in brown and grey robes, although he appeared sad as well for some reason.

There was a press of people gathering about her after the ceremony, congratulating her and welcoming her to the Knighthood. Byleth tried to nod and greet and make the most appropriate noises her exhausted brain could allow. It seemed to go on forever, and after a full day without food and two days without rest, Byleth was nearing her limits.

“Well there she is, the Knight of the day,” yelled a booming, cheerful voice. Byleth distinctly heard her father’s groan rise over the noise of the crowd.

A mustached and goateed man with brown hair in elaborate white armor forcibly turned Byleth around by the shoulders, then bent forward to shake her hand vigorously while grinning all the while. “Alois Rangeld, Knight-Captain of the Knights of Seiros, at your service Lady Byleth! I am so pleased that I managed to get here in time to see you become one of us! I was your father’s former squire when he was with the Knights, you know. And now like father, like daughter!” He was still shaking her wrist.

Byleth had to use both hands to disengage herself from the sunlit, laughing face of the Knight-Captain. “Thank you, Captain Alois. It is nice to meet you. We’ll talk later, hopefully.” Turning away, she heard Alois shout, “That’s right! We’ll meat and greet at your feast of honor, won’t we? I hear the food will be so good it’s...divine! Ha!”

Claude’s dark handsome face was suddenly before her, along with the scarred face of her father looking at her with amused sympathy, as they hustled Byleth away from Alois. “Hey, Miss Jeralt...I mean Lady Byleth. Don’t worry, we’re here to rescue you from the wicked Knight of Puns,” smiled Claude.

Byleth gave a steady look at her father, and Jeralt started chuckling. “I’m sorry, kid, but there’s nothing that competes with your first time meeting Alois. I couldn’t resist letting it happen, until Zarad and Trips decided to run interference. We’ll escort you to the dining hall.”

“Thank you,” said Byleth, adjusting her armor as they walked across the bridge from the cathedral. “I’m sorry, but I am getting tired.” She concentrated on smoothing her gait under the new weight, but soon looked at Claude and her father. “How do you like the new Golden Deer professor, Claude?”

Jeralt snorted, and Claude grinned. “Miss Jeralt, your father is almost as good a schemer as myself. Although he doesn’t approve of my more innovative ideas.”

Jeralt said with long patience, “Poisoning your enemy is a perfectly valid tactic, Claude. I just wouldn’t poison your classmates or professors, people with whom you are trying to bond with at the academy. That sort of thing causes ill will among the nobility.”

“It’s not poison, just a minor inconvenience…”

“Yeah, kid, no. Belly flux is no laughing matter. End of debate.”

Claude sighed mournfully. “And that’s the downside of having a mean mercenary as your professor. He’s a stickler for class discipline. Although I thought sending Hilda to the infirmary was a bit much.”

“I did not send her to the infirmary,” growled the Professor defensively. “Your little kind soul of a classmate took her. Besides, when you told me she had never worked a day in her life, I didn’t know you meant that literally.”

Byleth’s gaze turned inquiring, and Claude told the story with relish. “Little miss Lady Hilda Goneril decided to pull her spoiled rich kid act with your dad. He was not amused and sent her out to weed the gardens of Garreg Mach.”

“All of them?” Byleth asked her dad with reproof.

Her father sighed. “It was meant to be a lesson, and I was going to stop her when I felt she had learned it. I didn’t know she was going to cut her hands open bloody after the first plot. How can someone her age not have calluses on their hands yet, anyway? Doesn’t she train with an axe?”

“And how many other students ended up injured after their first day?” Byleth questioned Claude.

“No one else, surprisingly. Your father was very patient, and didn’t even kill Lorenz or Ignatz even though I could tell he clearly wanted to.”

“They’ve got some growing up to do,” allowed Jeralt. “Lorenz needs to get his head out of his ass, and Ignatz needs to get his head out of the Goddess’ ass. At least Leonie and Raphael are normal enough, and that kid Lysenthia…” He looked at Claude. “I think you’d better stop teasing her, for your own sake, or I’m going to have to send you back to your Grandfather in an urn. A small one.” Claude laughed but nodded. 

Rapid steps behind them heralded the arrival of Trips and Zarad catching up with them. “Oh Goddess save me,” gasped Trips. “Jeralt, when you said you knew some characters here at Garreg Mach, you were not kidding.”

Zarad still looked back to the cathedral in appalled bemusement. “That man’s mouth is a weapon, and he carelessly injures all within earshot. Yet you made him your squire! Captain, my already low respect for you has now vanished into the spirit realm.”

The group of them were still laughing and chatting when they were met at the door of the dining hall by a large Duscar man, who bowed to Byleth.

“Lady Byleth. Prince Dimitri has invited you to join him at your convenience. I hope you find the food prepared to your liking.”

“Yes, ah, thank you, Dedue,” Byleth said, her tired brain barely remembering the Blue Lion’s name. The large man nodded and rejoined the kitchen staff. The dining hall had been converted to a standing room, with steaming trays of food available for a line of hungry students, mercenaries, and Knights waiting with plates in hand. Couples and cliques of students gathered together in corners, some with food in hand, while in the rear of the room, a single long table for professors and Knight-Captains had been set. Byleth examined the crowd, but only saw the green hair of Flayn interweaving with the uniformed cadets and armored knights and mercenaries. “Where is the Archbishop and High Abbot?” she wondered.

Her father muttered something, then said clearly, “Lady Rhea and Lord Seteth like to take their meals in private. Something about the dignity of their offices or such rot. Not the best practice for inspiring trust and loyalty in my opinion.”

“Well,” said Claude brightly, “speaking of trust and loyalty, this is an excellent time for Lady Byleth to familiarize herself with her charges, don’t you agree?” Byleth had barely nodded before she was being led off by her arm with the young man. Zarad and her dad smirked at her while Trips laughed as they queued up for food.

The first group they neared were the Brigid Princess and Duke Aegir’s son talking with Lorenz and Leonie, two of her father’s students. “Ah, here we have Lorenz and Leonie chatting it up with Ferdinand and Petra. Good,” Claude murmured in her ear, gently reminding her of the students’ names. She acknowledged each of them as they were reacquainted.

“Congratulations, Lady Byleth,” said Leonie, admiring Byleth’s new armor. “It looks like the Knights don’t spare any expense for new recruits!”

“Indeed, it is quite unusual to receive such a personalized gift so quickly. It appears you have found a favor of sorts in Lady Rhea’s eyes,” said the tall Lord Gloucester.

“It wasn’t my idea,” said Byleth, extending her arms to display the gleaming chain links and arm guards. “But I couldn’t refuse it. I’ll have to train to get used to wearing it. And be worthy of Lady Rhea’s expectations.”

“Well said, Lady Byleth! For my part, I think a suit of armor is the least the Archbishop could do for the savior of three nobles. I heard that you not only saved Edelgard and Dimitri, but killed the mage that was about to slay our Lord Duke here himself!” said Ferdinand with a dazzling smile.

“Actually, my father…” started Byleth, but she was interrupted by the Brigid Princess.

“Lady Byleth, Ferdinand has telled me many stories of your strength. It is only natural for you to be recognized for the salvation of our friends,” said Petra earnestly.

“Ah, thank you, Your Highness. But as I was saying everyone did their part. Claude’s marksmanship and Prince Dimitri’s strength counted for much, as well as Princess Edelgard’s skill with axes. I was merely part of the team.”

“Such modesty,” said Ferdinand with admiration.

“Indeed, she wears it well. It is something of a lost art among the nobility of Fodlan. Lady Byleth, you will doubtless be a catch on the market,” commented Lorenz slyly.

Byleth blinked in confusion. “Market...my Lord…?”

“Oh don’t mind Mr. Marriage over here,” huffed Leonie, fixing Lorenz with a glare. “It’s practically all he thinks about, mixing and matching bloodlines and Crests and what-not.”

“I am merely pointing out to Lady Byleth that she has to consider all the ramifications of her new found status,” said Lorenz with a disdainful sniff.

Byleth still gave a blank look to Lorenz, and Claude smiled and gently said, “Ah, well, they didn’t tell you that part, did they? It turns out that as a sanctified Knight you carry a title in every noble court in Fodlan. And, um, I think you probably have land somewhere. And an estate. With servants. You’ll have to ask Seteth.”

“No...they didn’t mention that at all,” Byleth stammered out with difficulty. She had grown up in an attic loft above Trips’ drafty apothecary shack in Remire with a single warm blanket and a straw mattress that had to be checked regularly for vermin. The former mercenary tried to imagine herself owning farmland and ordering about servants and farmers. “I’ve...never actually owned a home before. I guess I’ll have to learn…”

“Well, your home should include a castellan or baronet who manages the holdings in sacred trust for you,” explained Ferdinand easily. “If you like, I could give you tutoring on the subject, in exchange for personally hearing the tale from you of how you saved Edelgard from that bandit.”

“There isn’t much to tell, my Lord. But please excuse me, I haven’t eaten since yesterday…”

“By the Goddess, you poor thing! She’s right! Wait here, Byleth, I’ll get you a plate,” exclaimed Leonie before she hurried off.

Petra added with a frown, “Claude, for shame to you! Letting a friend starve while you deserve to chat-chit. Come with me, we must improve her condition with meat from the hunt.” In short order, Claude was dragged off by the Brigid princess, sending an apologetic roll of his eyes to Byleth as he passed.

Lorenz turned a poorly feigned lazy look to Byleth. “I trust you have gotten familiar with our Lord Duke of Riegan.”

Byleth watched Claude being dragooned by Petra in the line to pick some choice cuts of food. “Yes, he’s been nothing but friendly. He seems easier to get along with than most nobles I’ve heard about…” Byleth belatedly realized her words and who she was speaking with, and bowed quickly to Lorenz and Ferdinand. “Ah, excuse me, my Lords, for my rudeness.”

“No apology necessary, Lady Byleth. Your words may be blunt, but no less truthful. In fact, Claude’s ease with the commons causes much of the nobility to distrust him,” said Ferdinand.

“Why? Just because he acts like a commoner?” Byleth asked in bewilderment. These nobles and their rules were giving her a headache.

“Yes, but not for the reasons you might think.” Lorenz waved magnanimously over the dining hall. “There is nothing wrong with a noble fraternizing with the common folk. I believe such behavior is to be commended, even encouraged. But my father, Count Gloucester, has intimated to me that he believes that Claude von Riegan is not a real noble. And that would be the true offense.”

Ferdinand again helpfully supplied background to ease her understanding. “This is not common knowledge, but Duke Riegan’s son and Claude’s uncle, Lord Godfrey, was slain last year in a tragic ambush by unknown assailants. Less than a month after the attack and Lord Godfrey’s funeral, Claude was presented to the Leicester Alliance as the son of Lord Godfrey’s sister, Lady Desdemona, who disappeared from her House twenty years ago and never returned. As it was presumed she was dead, Claude’s claim was briefly in dispute, but since it was verified that he does have a Crest of Riegan, his claim is accepted for now.”

“Only publicly accepted, mind you,” said Lorenz, adjusting his rose on his doublet. “In the meantime, his deplorable manners and lackadaisical attitude have caused numerous scandals at the Alliance Councils in Deidriu.”

Byleth shrugged, quickly losing interest. “He hasn’t acted that way with me. I think he’s smart and skilled. And funny. He likes to make a joke out of everything.”

“And that is precisely the attitude that irritates me to no end! You may be newly elevated to the Knighthood, Lady Byleth, so your ignorance is understandable. But there are rules and manners and protocol that must be observed in order to function in noble society, which Claude ignores completely! It is most terribly upsetting,” Lorenz complained with a dainty wave.

“Then it’s good that Claude doesn’t know what upsets you, Lorenz,” deadpanned Byleth.

“What do you mean--?” asked a shocked Lorenz.

Ferdinand started smiling and nodding. “I believe Lady Byleth is trying to tell you gently, Lorenz, that you are being played like a lute by Garreg Mach’s resident schemer.”

Byleth nodded at his perception. “I’ve seen him flirt with Edelgard and make sport of Dimitri. They hate it. He likes making fun of people when he thinks they’re being too serious.”

“Really, now?” said Lorenz, calming himself and becoming intrigued. “So Claude is merely nettling me to gain an advantage for himself, by manipulating my weaknesses. That is astonishingly insightful, Knight Byleth. What, ah, pray tell is the appropriate response to such a tactic?”

Byleth gave an upward turn of her mouth as Leonie, Claude and Petra returned with steaming plates, hoping her stomach wasn’t growling audibly. “It depends. You can ignore him. Or make sport with him in return. Watch.”

Claude handed her a plate with a juicy haunch of venison as he arrived with a smiling Petra and Leonie. “Miss Jeralt, I’m sorry I left you alone with the two snootiest nobles in all of Fodlan. I hope they didn’t bore you to death reciting their geneology.”

“They tried, but I lived. Thank you, Claude. It smells delicious. What poison did you use this time?” asked Byleth, poking at the meat.

“Salt and pepper,” smirked Claude.

“Really? My favorite. You’re too good to me, my Lord Duke. Lorenz, Ferdinand, perhaps we can talk more later. Right now I need to eat my poison,” said Byleth, nodding to the two noblemen as she left with the others as they laughed in appreciation.

Ferdinand and Lorenz were quiet for a moment as they overcame their revulsion. “Such common familiarity…” murmured Lorenz, still shocked.

“And so disingenuous!” replied Ferdinand, looking at the laughing clique with a shade of envy as they ate. “But if that is what it takes to build comradery among one’s fellows, and disarm Claude’s charm among the commoners...” 

“Indeed. My Lord Aegir, I think we ought to do our best to learn this technique, so we will not be disadvantaged in the future by our social lessors.”

“I am in complete agreement, My Lord Glouscester. But who among the Houses can teach us about insincerity?”

The two noblemen were lost in thought until a third joined them. “Hey guys! Pretty nice party, don’t you think? These pork buns are great! I think Dedue really outdid himself this time,” said Sylvain, chewing food from his plate. He slowly noticed the two other noblemen looking strangely at him. “What?”

* 

Byleth eventually ate her fill, and excused herself from Petra, Leonie, and Claude when they got involved in an extensive argument about archery and hunting. She made polite greetings to Raphael, who was attempting to eat twenty cuts of meat, and a much smaller young man--Casper, she realized--who was attempting to outdo him, while other students surrounded them in stupefied disgust or admiration. Not wanting to stay for the inevitable ending, Byleth wandered aimlessly through the crowd, her fatigue catching up to her now that she had eaten.

Somehow, she had ended up at the entrance of the dining hall to the ornamental gardens. She idly wondered why Garreg Mach was so big yet still had these odd twists and turns…

“...but don’t worry, we’re safe here. And look what I have! Ta-DA! Carrots for Dorte!”

“Th-thank you. You’ve been so helpful...I’ll tell Dorte that you helped me get him a treat. He’s friends with all the other horses…”

A giggle. “And I’m friends with all the plants! We make a good team, Marianne!”

“Y-yeah...I guess we do. I...I wish we could just do this, instead of all this fighting…”

The voices she heard dropped into conspiratorial whispering. Byleth stepped into the garden and peered past a fern into a hidden nook between the hedges that had been taken over by two female students. They were murmuring a conversation Byleth couldn’t hear.

Not wanting to be rude, Byleth said “Hello.”

“AH! Who’s there!” screamed a small purple headed girl wearing an apron. It took a second for Byleth to recognize Bernadetta von Varley in her cooking attire. “What kind of malefactor would sneak up onto two innocent maidens? You’re here to steal our souls, aren't you? Well you can’t, because they’re already long dead! Dead!” 

“Oh! Um...Lady Byleth…” stammered the taller blue haired girl with bangs.

Byleth brushed past the fern leaves to see the small Black Eagle turned away in the corner of the hedge, not looking at her. The other student--Marianne, Byleth recalled--was standing with a bundle of carrots in one hand and a bag in another.

“I’m sorry I interrupted you. Were you planning on taking a treat to the stables?” asked Byleth to Marianne. She glanced at Bernadetta’s back, but the other girl appeared determined to not turn around and face her.

“Ah...yes. Bernadetta was helping me…” whispered Marianne. She sounded despondent.

“That’s kind of both of you. I haven’t had a chance to visit the stables yet. Are Canis, Thunder, and the others doing well?”

“Oh! Those are the new horses, right? Your horses? They’ve been so restless and worried. They’re not used to Garreg Mach yet,” said Marianne, visibly brightening.

“I don’t think I’m used to Garreg Mach yet either,” said Byleth. “They’ll enjoy the carrots. But what’s in the sack?”

“Ah...Bernie--Bernadetta--gave me some seeds to give to the poor birds. Some of them are so hungry after winter…”

“What birds? Chickens?” puzzled Byleth.

“Oh! Oh no...the jays and the robins, and the nuthatches...they’ve just migrated back…” said Marianne softly.

“That’s nice of you,” said Byleth, unsure if she was doing something wrong. Marianne could barely look at her, and Bernadetta was still trying to hide in the corner. But she felt she had to say something, if only to be polite, like a proper Knight. “Ah...thank you for helping prepare my food, Bernadetta. It was good. And for thinking of the animals, Marianne. I’m sorry I bothered the two of you. I’ll see you...around.” Remembering to bow to the two noblewomen, Byleth turned and left them alone.

Marianne and Bernadetta said nothing for several dozen heartbeats.

Finally, Bernadetta turned around to face Marianne again. “Lady Byleth...seems nice for a Knight…” she ventured.

Marianne gave a jerky nod to her friend with her bounty still in hand. “Her horse really does miss her,” she whispered. “I think only a nice person could be like that.”

Bernadetta rubbed sweaty hands on her apron. “I have to get back and help clean, or Dedue will scowl at me again. We’ll talk later tonight, right Marianne?” Without waiting for a reply, she dashed off to the kitchen.

A final, wistful whisper. “Um. Ok. Thank you, Bernie…”

*

Byleth sat on a bench in the gardens, appreciating a moment of quiet from the sounds of the crowd in the dining hall. The events of the past few days were catching up to her. By this time, her father and her were supposed to have been staying at Castle Gaspard, under the command of Lord Lonato, a noble of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus in its western region. The contract was meant to be a security detail for the surrounding lands, likely involving more bandit or poacher hunting. Instead of working as a mercenary with her rough and tumble family, she was now a member of the gentry as a Knight of Seiros, friends with an Imperial princess, eating at Garreg Mach monastery with strange noble students, and under the command of a mysterious Archbishop she recognized from her dreams. Her exhausted state was making a hash of her thoughts, and she could not begin to articulate clearly what was going on inside of her. She almost felt like she could doze off, but her new armor was heavy and uncomfortable, pinching her body in new spots where her skin was not used to it.

“Aw, are the limits of mortals so constraining for us now? Are you regretting our choices already?”

Byleth opened her eyes in shock to see a child’s impish face inches from her own. Sothis was hovering in front of her, her robes and hair twisting on immaterial, ethereal winds.

“Sothis,” said Byleth shortly, looking around her. The garden still appeared the same, with the sun’s rays lengthening the shadows towards evening. “This isn’t your realm…”

A small giggle. “Everything is in my realm. But no, instead of you visiting me, now I am visiting you.”

“Why?” said Byleth, eyeing the girl.

“Because we are one. Someday, you must accept this. You are not a mortal. You are not a demon. You are me.”

“Go away!” demanded Byleth, standing up to confront the Goddess.

“Lady Byleth--?”

Byleth blinked and turned to see Prince Dimitri standing in the garden, tall and kingly and an expression of concern written on his face. He bowed shortly. “Forgive me. I was seeking you out to congratulate you on your accession to the Knighthood, but you appear to be in some distress.”

Byleth looked to where she had seen Sothis, seeing nothing but grass and greenery. “Prince Dimitri. I’m...sorry you saw me do that,” she apologized. She rubbed her blurry eyes. “I guess I’m tired. Tired enough to talk to myself.”

The Prince’s face combined between a grimace and a smile. “No apology is necessary. I understand completely. I know what it is like to struggle with unwelcome thoughts or feelings that manifest themselves rudely.”

Byleth stared at Dimitri, curious, then awareness dawned. The Tragedy. The Prince was the only survivor of the attack that killed the rest of his family and friends. “Of course, Your Highness. I’m sorry I reminded you of it. I was telling Edelgard that I seem to only bring up bad memories for her. I don’t want to do the same for you.”

“Yes...Edelgard…” Dimitri said, frowning, lost in thought for a moment. Byleth felt a hint of something within her, but was suddenly consumed by her bone-deep fatigue. She sat back down heavily on the bench as Dimitri asked her, “May I talk with you for a moment, now that we are in private, Lady Byleth?”

The newly made Knight gave assent. “Go ahead. But please sit with me, Dimitri, as we talk.”

The Prince moved gracefully to his seat, then seemed to fold up as he lowered his rangy frame onto the low bench. Byleth tried to give him her attention, but noticed the Prince was like herself in one regard; when speaking or listening sometimes, he turned his face away. Unlike Claude, who was always trying to make her smile, or Edelgard, who could look her in the eyes and cut to the heart.

Dimitri was still looking out to the garden when he spoke. “Lady Byleth...? May I speak to you about Edelgard?”

Byleth was unsure of Dimitri’s intent. “Why? She’s just...my friend,” she said shortly, trying to get a read on the Prince.

Dimitri’s handsome face smiled without humor. “That is precisely why I wish to talk to you. I am glad you are familiar with her. Edelgard has changed...quite literally...from the charming girl I once knew in my childhood. Since we have arrived at the academy, she has rebuffed my every overture to renew our ties...to the point where I am not even sure if she remembers how close we once were.”

Byleth restlessly repositioned herself at his words, remembering her vow to Edelgard mere hours ago. But as long as they spoke in vague terms, she could still protect her friend’s secrets. “You think something happened to her,” she said carefully.

“I do. But for you to understand that, you need to know how our histories intertwine.” The Prince faced Byleth. “You have heard of the Insurrection of the Seven?”

“Somewhat,” she nodded. “I was eleven or twelve when it happened. Something to do with the Emperor trying to take control from the nobles of the Empire, but instead, they took control from him.”

“Largely correct,” nodded Dimitri. “Emperor Ionius was trying to centralize his power and authority, and bring the nobility of the Empire to heel. He failed to do so. The seven most powerful nobles of the Empire, led by Duke Aegir and Lord Arundel, subdued the Imperial household in a quiet coup that left the Emperor and his family virtual prisoners in their own palace. What is not largely known is that Lord Arundel and Duke Aegir struggled behind the scenes. Lord Volkhard von Arundel is a hard man, a man long used to the dance of Imperial politics. But he was also once reputed to be deeply pious and by all accounts cared much for his family. His sister, Anselma von Arundel, was the First Wife of Emperor Ionius. She was Edelgard’s mother.”

Byleth tried to follow as closely as she could. “Ah...First Wife?”

Dimitri chuckled briefly, startling for its spontaneity. “Oh, that’s right. Yes, the Emperors of Adrestia have been divinely mandated since the War of the Ancients to practice polygamy. Some did not, but the practice has returned in the past few generations. I suppose it was simply a convenient excuse to attempt to have as many Crest-bearing heirs as possible. And yes, Anselma, Edelgard’s mother, was not the first woman to wed Emperor Ionius. But she was his favorite, and so accordingly, that granted her a title and special privileges in the Imperial Court. Lord Arundel used his sister’s marriage to the Emperor to catapult himself at the forefront of Imperial politics.”

“So...this Lord Arundel is Edelgard’s uncle.”

“Correct. And while Lord Arundel was one of the nobles who helped overthrow the Emperor, reducing his liege to a mere figurehead, he apparently lost influence somehow in the aftermath. So he fled the Empire, taking with him his sister and his niece into exile. They escaped Duke Aegir and their fellow Imperial nobles by coming to Faerghus and my home city of Fhirdiad. Lord Arundel, Edelgard, and Anselma--having changed her name to Patricia--were the guests of the King...my father...for three years.”

Byleth’s eyes widened in comprehension. “You grew up with Edelgard.”

“Yes,” said Dimitri in a low voice, looking away again.

“But you’re saying she doesn’t remember that? She doesn’t know who you were...or are?” asked Byleth, now fully alert. “That’s...Dimitri…”

“Apparently not,” said the Prince in the same low intonation. “I am sorry for disturbing you with this information, Lady Byleth, but you can well imagine how I feel. In many ways, Edelgard is...or was...the only family I have left.”

Byleth was distressed by Dimitri’s suffering, but more distressed by the knowledge of Edelgard’s suffering as a child. Something terrible had happened to her friend, she was now certain, and she said urgently, “Tell me what you know, Dimitri. Please.”

Dimitri was about to begin, but looked up to see other students and Knights start drifting into the gardens after the meal. Instead, he quickly said in Byleth’s ear, “I will tell you everything later. But know this: Edelgard was the fourth daughter of the Emperor. She told me she had many brothers and sisters while she stayed with me, and how much she missed them.” Dimitri unlimbered himself from the bench, raising Byleth up effortlessly by her elbow. His face was twisted between anger, pity, and horror as he whispered, “But now...Edelgard is an only child, according to her own words. The sole living heir.”

Byleth was stunned, and Dimitri quickly bowed to her and left the gardens. He left behind a woman who was feeling, for the first time, that the world was a dark and evil place.

*

Felix stormed into the garden, chased by a trio of chattering girls.

“Oh, come on, Felix, I made this especially for you,” said the short redhead in curled pigtails, holding a plate with a slice of red and white cake.

“Feeeeelix,” crooned the brunette in a cap. “I’ll sing a song about you if you don’t try a bite…”

“That’s a great idea! You sing the harmony, and I’ll sing the melody! Ohhh, I baked a cake for a man to take and slake his hunger oooooooonnnnn…”

“Oh dear, Annette. You...might have some talent as a lyricist, but you could use some vocal lessons…”

An albino girl with bangs and long white hair scoffed dismissively. “No song should be necessary for someone to want to eat cake. Although it might be necessary for someone who is so rude that he turns his back while people are speaking to him.”

Felix had stomped himself into a corner. The three girls, exchanging triumphant looks, fanned out to surround him and block any attempt at escaping.

“Well now,” said the albino girl, folding her arms, her tone arch. “You really might as well give up. We’re in the gardens. There’s no one here to waste your cold words and mean looks on. We’re all not impressed. You just need to be courteous, for once in your life, and then we’ll let you go.”

Felix snorted, still not facing them. “I could still climb the walls.”

The albino’s hair began to stir on an intangible wind. “And I could still break your legs by snapping my fingers. You might find it hard to train when you’re a cripple...”

Annette paled at that. “N--now Lysithea, we’re all still friends here. Um, so, Felix, I made this spice cake for you because Mercie and Lysithea told me you didn’t like cake. I...that is to say we...just wanted you to try a bite. Just to change your mind.”

“Maybe I don’t want to change my mind,” said Felix teresly. He still refused to face them.

“Maybe not,” said the brunette musically. “In that case, what’s the harm of trying a single bite? Unless you’re just afraid of three girls offering you a slice of moist, delicious cake…”

“I’m not afraid, Dorothea,” Felix nearly shouted as he spun around. “I just don’t want the bother of all three of you giggling and simpering and fawning over me in the future. I don’t want to try it. All of you are refusing to listen to me. So what am I supposed to do?”

“What’s going on?” said a new voice.

All four students turned to see Byleth slowly step from the shadows of the garden. She looked worn, as if her blank expression was hiding burdens. Yet she also looked determined and brilliant in her newly fashioned ivory armor.

“Lady Byleth,” said Dorothea with a charming smile. “What a surprise to find you in the gardens. I had thought you had retired early after your vigil.”

“The thought did occur to me,” admitted Byleth, her eyes shadowed. “Yet I am...compulsive enough, I suppose, to see this event through to the end.”

“Byleth...I thought you and the boar were still talking sweetly to each other,” said Felix with his eyes narrowed.

Byleth stared at Felix for a long moment. Finally, she turned to Annette, who was closest to her. “Am I missing something?”

“Felix likes to disrespect Prince Dimitri by calling him that. We’ve all told him to stop, but he doesn’t listen. The Prince just ignores him,” said Annette, offering the laden plate and fork to Byleth to see if she wanted to try it, but she had resumed staring at Felix.

“Dimitri is not a boar,” said Byleth flatly.

Felix scoffed. “If he isn’t, then how did you break your arm in the battle at Remire?”

Byleth’s stare hardened. “It was a battle, and it was an accident. Sometimes that happens. If you’d been in any real fighting, you’d know that.”

“Don’t act like you know him,” said Felix, raising his voice. “I have been in real fighting with that murderous animal. I’ve killed men beside him. But at least I don’t laugh like a maniac while I’m doing it, or torture dying people just to hear their screams. I’m the only one that sees what he truly is! He’s an untamable, single minded beast that wears the mask of a human being.”

“Well then, I guess the rude and obsessive man who thinks about nothing except fighting and has no friends has issued his expert opinion on the subject,” said Lysithea with acid sarcasm.

“Oh my. This is escalating quickly,” murmured Dorothea. “Believe me when I say that drama is best saved for the stage.”

“Um. Good idea, Dorothea. Look, Felix, I’ll just set the plate down here,” said Annette, balancing the plate on a nearby low hedge. “I guess if you don’t eat it, at least the ants and birds will appreciate my effort.” She quickly walked back to the dining hall.

Lysithea sneered at Felix. “Upsetting your own classmate like that. I would tell you to be ashamed of yourself, but why bother since you clearly have none to begin with?” She turned and hurried after Annette.

“Ah, Felix. You can kill a mood as quickly as you can kill a man. That’s...not a compliment, by the way. Coming, Lady Byleth?” Dorothea asked, smiling and holding out her arm.

“In a moment, Lady Dorothea,” said Byleth firmly, still not taking her gaze from an equally grim Felix. “Please go on ahead.” Byleth didn’t see Dorothea’s blushing yet pleased expression as she left the two of them alone.

When she was back in the dining hall and they were alone in the garden corner, Felix grunted, “Are you going to try to stare me to death? You’re wasting your time. And mine.”

“Why do you hate him?” asked Byleth stonily.

“I don’t. I don’t hate animals. They just act out according to their nature,” said Felix. He folded his arms and looked away. “What I hate is people bowing to one. Or telling me about how kind and generous and polite it is. Or what a good king it will be, or how you want to forgive it for injuring you during battle. As far as I’m concerned, the Prince Dimitri I knew died in the Tragedy. All that’s left is a broken shell and an instinct to kill.”

“That’s cruel to say,” said Byleth, remembering the mean children in her village. Felix sounded exactly like them.

Felix gazed at her with scornful pity. “It’s the truth. I’m not like the rest of my classmates who love deluding themselves with meaningless pomp about Knighthood and glory and duty. The world is what it is, and only the strong survive. All I care about is being strong enough to survive. And I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks.”

Byleth tilted her head now to study the young man. “Life isn’t just about survival. Even I know that.”

“Then you’re wrong, just like everyone else. That’s all it is. It’s all it ever will be,” snorted Felix. Turning away to leave, he added without looking at her, “Take it from me. Don’t get too close to him. You’ll just end up getting hurt again.”

Silent for a moment, Byleth nodded. “Thank you for the warning, Lord Fraldarius. But I will do my job.” She turned and entered the dining hall.

Felix glared at the blue haired Knight’s back as it receded from him, then stared resentfully at the cake. A barely audible sigh escaped him.

Moments later, he was walking to the training grounds, leaving behind an empty plate.

*

Byleth entered the dining hall and saw Lysithea and Dorothea, as well as Mercedes and Ingrid, supporting a tearful Annette at the end of a dining table in the corner. Not wanting to disturb them, as well as wondering why Felix was getting so much undeserved attention in the first place, Byleth scanned the hall. It appeared most of the students had left, including Claude. She was disappointed that she had not seen Edelgard, but reminded herself that her friend probably needed rest since visiting her late last night. She also had no idea of what to do with the knowledge Dimitri had shared with her. She knew Edelgard well enough to know that any confirmation of such terrible events would have to be slowly cajoled from the Imperial Princess, in a secure and safe environment with no prying ears. Knowing Edelgard’s feelings about the Church, Byleth knew those chances would be brief and hard to arrange.

Seeking distraction from her dark thoughts, she spotted her father holding court with the rest of her mercenary friends as well as Catherine and Shamir and the other professors, laughing and talking. Students on kitchen duty bustled about the hall, helping the regular staff clean up the remains of the meal held in her honor. Byleth made an effort to thank each one of them, earning a short nod from Dedue, a frightened squeak from Bernadetta, and a grateful smile from the silver haired boy named Ashe.

Eventually she made her way towards her father, intending to bid him goodnight, now that the sun had set. Monastery brothers and sisters on duty moved about the hall, lighting wicks and torches as the dining hall darkened. Jeralt was snorting and laughing with Trips, Manuela, and Catherine while Zarad was conducting an animated conversation with the grey haired professor and a mildly interested Shamir, who was the first to notice Byleth approach.

“Welcome to the party,” said the archer, smiling easily as she handed Byleth a small mug filled with a liquid.

“What’s this?” said Byleth, sniffing the mug. It clearly wasn’t water.

“Aque vitae,” said the foreign woman, downing a mug of her own. “The monks of Garreg Mach do a brisk trade across Fodlan for it. We decided to broach a cask to celebrate all of you joining us. After all, we’ll be fighting together, right?”

Byleth frowned. “I’m not sure...I don’t do well with lots of ale or wine…”

Unfortunately, her father took that moment to notice his daughter with a drink in hand. “That’s my girl! It’s time to celebrate the good life! Let’s hear it for the Hero of Remire!” All at the table gave a lusty cheer, aside from a smiling Shamir.

Byleth felt like a teenager all over again. “Dad…” she began warningly.

The table erupted into riotous laughter. Catherine snorted into her cup uncontrollably, and Professor Manuela guffawed outright in a dulcet voice. “Oh my Goddess! You actually got her to do it!”

Trips was giggling, but tried to smother it as she told Byleth, “Sorry, kiddo. Jeralt made a bet with the rest of the Knights that he could get you to do that. Zarad and I said no deal.”

The Almyran grinned boisterously as he raised his own cup. “The only deal we need to see now is for ‘Lady’ Byleth to toast herself! Drink up the water of life! Drink with your fellow Knights!”

Byleth still hesitated, looking into ominous contents of the mug, but then felt Shamir lean in close to her ear. “You’re only Knighted once. Tomorrow Rhea may send us out on a mission that gets us killed. Sometimes you have to take all the life you can get in this line of work. And who knows? Maybe having fun like this will prevent death on the battlefield, and make you want to live that much harder.” She stepped back and genuinely smiled, making her normally stoic face appear dazzling, as she raised her own mug in salute.

Wondering at the woman’s strange mix of fatalism and optimism, Byleth nodded to her and lifted the mug to her lips. The liquid was cool, but had a soothing sweet warm taste about it. She tilted her head back and swallowed the rest…

...and felt her sinuses explode. Choking, barely able to hold the liquid down, Byleth gasped for air as snot and tears rained from her face, falling into a seat more by accident than design. Trips was up in an instant, patting her back, while the table laughed again, but with a sympathetic note.

“Ah, young Byleth,” said Zarad, shaking his head. “It is just as well you are now a pious Knight of the Fairy, rather than a mercenary. You would not do well in taverns by yourself.”

Catherine peered at Jeralt with one eye under her blonde mane. “You sure she’s your kid?”

The new Professor waved his cup in the vague direction of his daughter, nearly backhanding Manuela in the face. “She’s young. Give her time, she'll be a worthy heir to my name.”

The grey haired gentleman with a monocle leaned forward with interest to a mostly recovered Byleth, who was wiping her face with a rag. Shamir discreetly refilled her mug with the decanter, ignoring a glowering Trips. “Lady Byleth,” he said in an unctuous tone, “I know your father is a bearer of the Major Crest of Seiros from the archives here at Garreg Mach. If you don’t mind, I would very much like you to visit me in my laborato---err, I mean office sometime. After hearing of your exploits in battle from your friends, I quite suspect you may have Crest bearing blood yourself.” Byleth looked at him with watery eyes, barely recovered from her choking fit.

“Captain…” said Trips in a warning tone, raising her voice.

Jeralt was tipsy but still caught on immediately, and turned to his colleague. “That’s...reasonable, Professor Hanneman. But if you don’t mind, Lady Beatrix has helped raise Byleth since she was in swaddling. I know that Crest examinations can sometimes be...intensive. I think having Lady Beatrix with Byleth would make her feel more comfortable.”

Hanneman seemed to puff up, as if he were debating on whether to take umbrage or not. Finally he nodded and said, “Very well. I agree with your conditions. I suppose I should be thankful that I was not refused outright.”

Byleth was starting to feel numb warmth filling her, now that her fit was over. She looked at all the older adults talking and laughing, and started to feel a connection, a bond with every other person she had never quite felt before. Shamir was sitting next to her, and Byleth didn’t mind the archer being close to her at all. She noticed her refilled mug and sipped at it, noticing the fiery liquid was not that bad now. Her exhaustion fled as she started to feel...relaxed.

Her stepmom leaned next to her. “Hey kid...you don’t need to try to keep up with your dad or Zarad. Or Manuela! Goddess, that woman…” Trips looked at the Black Eagle’s Professor, her cleavage threatening to spill out as she cackled with Catherine and Jeralt. “Anyway, this might not be the best idea anyway…” she whispered to Byleth, tapping her head.

Byleth smiled unsteadily at Trips. “Oh, that. I just tell Sothis to go away now, Trips. It works most of the time.”

“Kid, if you are trying to make me feel better, you are failing miserably.” But Byleth didn’t listen, and was soon deep in a sniggering conversation with Shamir and Zarad. Trips sighed and regarded her own half-full mug, then pushed it away regretfully. Someone was going to have to be responsible, and it looked as if that someone was going to have to be her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Byleth wakes up on the roof of Garreg Mach, with no memory of how she got there. jk. Maybe. 
> 
> Eagle-eyed lore hounds may have noted that I altered the date of the death of Claude's uncle. This is deliberate. Also, as this was written before the DLC campaign, Claude's mother here is Desdemona, in keeping with the Shakespeare theme as well as being an Othello tribute.
> 
> And yes, I named Byleth's horse Canis. Lame in-joke is lame.


	12. The Crest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I feel bad for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.”
> 
> ~ Frank Sinatra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's finally a little action in this chapter?

Ch 12

The Mission

Awareness returned slowly. Something was shaking her.

“Get up, you two,” said an echoing voice of damnation. Byleth tried to open her eyes, but they felt stuck together. Her mouth felt like it was full of sand.

“Aw c’mon, Shammy. Just another hour more…” croaked a voice in her ear.

Byleth rolled over in shock, barely catching herself from falling out of the bed. Catherine was asleep next to her, her face puffy and red. Both of them were still in most of their armor, aside from breastplates and shoulderguards, and Byleth felt her joints and muscles ache and the pain forced her mind to alertness. She tried to swing her legs down to the stone floor, somehow tripped over her own boots, and slid out of the bed onto her rump.

A full water bucket and ladle was placed in front of her on the floor. Shamir’s pitiless gaze looked down on them both, the sunlight from the window illuminating her flawless composure. She was already fully geared.

“Drink up, and try to make yourselves presentable. Seteth wants to see us.”

Byleth tried to focus up at her fellow Knight. “What happened?” she asked, her voice as low as her father’s.

“You had fun. Now you need to recover. Chamber pot is in the corner if you need it. I’ll be back in a few moments, but hurry it up.” The archer turned her heel as gracefully as any dancer, and exited the room.

Byleth shakily used the ladle to wet her mouth with water. She had thought she had drank to excess before with her father, but that was usually with ale or wine that made her feel naturally inclined to stop after enough cups. This was something new and unpleasantly different, and it made her feel ill. She unsteadily rose to her feet, and considered herself, as well as the lightly snoring form of Catherine. Their swordbelts were nowhere in sight, which was just as well, Byleth thought sourly. She stumbled over to the chamber pot, noting that Shamir had left her the task of waking up the Holy Knight of Seiros. She was not looking forward to it.

*

Catherine and Byleth’s eyes were only slightly less puffy when they stood at attention before the High Abbot with Shamir, in the Knight’s training grounds near their quarters. Byleth was wondering if she had put on her armor back on correctly, noting it felt much more uncomfortable now than yesterday. She saw Catherine’s bedhead next to her and held only slight hope her hair was not a similar mess. Shamir’s own violet hair gleamed with perfect grooming, her eyes sharp and focused with both her leather armor and iron shoulder plates shining with polish. Byleth felt faintly resentful towards the archer.

“Well,” said Seteth in his most disapproving voice, “I suppose I should be grateful you can stand up, at least. I have to substitute today for Professor Manuela...again. At least your father, Byleth, is unaffected. I want the two of you to take the rest of today off. By tomorrow morning, Lady Rhea has ordered the three of you, with your choice of company, to sweep the hills to the east of Garreg Mach. Lord Gloucester has graciously allowed us to use the woods in the eastern foothills for our training grounds. You will reconnoiter the area to make sure it is clear of any hostile forces. This needs to be done within the week, so while you have this day to recover, you need three days to travel to the site, and then at least another two days before we can declare the area secure. The three of you will be the judges for the initial House Mock Battle. You will be aided in your observations by my sister Flayn and Lady Beatrix, who will also provide medical support. That is all. Dismissed.” With a flash of blue uniform and black cloak, the High Abbot was gone.

Catherine was attempting to discreetly lean on Byleth, and failing. “Hey, hon, did you get all of that?” she inquired to Shamir. Byleth tried her best on not being sick.

“I did,” Shamir said shortly. “I’m going to train with Cyril this morning, but you two might want to go back to bed. I’ll have some bread sent to you. Just remember you owe me.”

Byleth and Catherine staggered back to the room they had woken up in, which Byleth belatedly realized were Shamir’s quarters. Her own new room was further down the hall, she vaguely remembered. “Where’s your room?” she asked the older woman.

“Upshtairs,” mumbled Catherine. “I don’t feel like going there right now. Not the first time I’ve slept here.”

“Oh,” said Byleth. Then, after several more unsteady steps, she added, “Oh. Um, well, I’ll go to my room then.”

“You do that, Byleth. Maybe we can finish that wrestling match some other time. You’re pretty strong, y’know’that? Good night.” With that, Catherine reeled back into Shamir’s austere room, slamming the door closed. A stumbling thud was heard moments later.

Hoping the noises signified Catherine had at least made it to the bed, Byleth walked carefully down the hallway to her own room. She wanted to make it there without incident, before anyone…

“What’s this? Did a Knight have a night to remember? HA!”

...noticed her. 

The current Captain of the Knights of Seiros stood in the middle of the hallway, hands on hips, blocking her access to her room. His hair and beard were oiled, his face beamed, and his shining armor reflected knives of sunlight into Byleth’s eyes. Shamir and Seteth’s voices had sounded like thunder in Byleth’s skull. The voice of Alois felt like an army fighting during an earthquake.

“Well, look at you! I must say, Byleth, you’re looking a little green around the gills! No rise and shine for the daughter of Jeralt, I guess! More like rise and BRINE, am I right?” he boomed, his grin wide behind his beard.

Byleth was sick.

* 

She woke up later in bed in her own room, her armor removed, in bare clothing. Byleth opened her gummy eyes to see the grey robed form of Trips leaning over her.

“Hey, kid,” she smiled down at her child. “Did we learn something today?”

Byleth groaned and tried to rise. Trips pushed her back to the straw pallet with ease.

“Hold up, Byleth,” she said. “Let me just do this real quick. You’re lucky that I stopped early last night, thinking you were going to need it.”

Humming, Trips knelt down by the bed and laid one hand on Byleth’s bare midriff, her other touching a bucket of water. White light began to shine throughout the small chamber, brighter than the sunlight outside. Byleth immediately started to feel better, strength returning through her body and her limbs.

Trips leaned back as the glow ceased. She was sweating and breathing heavily, but her expression was sweetly indulgent. “Now, how’s that?”

“What...did you do? '' said Byleth, rising from the bed with ease now. She swung her legs to the floor and looked with curiosity at the now empty bucket.

Trips smiled as she stood slowly. “You needed water, so I decided this was the best way to get it into you. Goddess knows I’ve had to do this for Jeralt enough times. In fact, it was because he drank so much when you were a baby that I developed this spell.”

Byleth felt confused. “He still drinks…”

“Yeah, kid, you didn’t see how he was in those first few years. It was bad. Believe me, where he’s at now is moderation for him.”

“Moderation sounds like a good idea for me, too,” Byleth said, stretching her arms slowly. The healing might have improved her general condition, but her muscles still protested strongly. She saw with shock extensive bruises around her body. “What happened--?” she asked for the second time that day.

Trips looked down on her with a wry expression. “You and Catherine got into an arm wrestling match, which soon devolved into a real wrestling match. It didn’t help that Zarad and the Captain were shouting encouragement at the two of you. She finally got you into a hold when the two of you passed out on top of each other. Shamir and I hauled your asses to bed. Your dad and Hanneman carried Manuela back to her room upstairs. I think Zarad curled up somewhere in the gardens .”

Now that she had recovered, Byleth felt her memories return slowly. She had been confident in her ability to beat almost anyone in a test of strength, but Catherine had surprised her. The Holy Knight seemed just as strong as she was, and Byleth remembered with guilt being drunkenly beligerant at the realization. She couldn’t look at Trips. “I’m sorry. I guess I made an ass of myself.”

“Well, you’re still a Knight, so don’t worry about that. I think Alois will forgive you...although you might have to put up with him joking about you puking on him for the rest of your life.” Byleth sighed at the thought. Trips smiled as she wandered to the window to look at the sky. “I think it’s about mid-afternoon now. Classes for the students should be ending soon. Maybe we can knock out that meeting with Hanneman this evening.”

“Hanneman? Oh. That Crest thing--”

“Yeah. You don’t have your Dad’s Crest of Seiros, I know that much. But maybe it’s a good idea to get checked out by an expert. Every test I did on you came up inconclusive. I have to admit I’m curious.”

Byleth began dressing herself, but then sniffed at her old clothing, and made a mental note to wash it later. She tossed aside her armored gambeson and heavier armor to wear her lighter loose shirt jacket and stockings. She found her sword and belt in a corner of her room and buckled it. Nodding to her stepmother, she said, “Let’s go ahead and do it.”

Trips winked at her. “You need some food first, kid. Let’s visit the dining hall, then we’ll go.”

*

Feeling refreshed but uncertain, Byleth stood with Trips outside the door of Professor Hanneman’s room. “Is he here?”

Trips nodded. “I sent him a message earlier. He’s here. He’s probably still getting ready.”

At that moment, the wooden door swung open, with Professor Hanneman looking like a giddy boy despite his age. “Welcome, welcome, come in, come in. Please step inside and make yourselves at home. I made some tea.”

They stepped inside a comfortable office, with bookshelves and odd devices lining the walls. Byleth tried her best not to gape like a country bumpkin. She had never seen so many books in one place in her life. Two small chairs had been set in front of a cluttered desk, with a small tray holding a ceramic teapot and three delicate cups with saucers nearby. Trips discreetly motioned for Byleth to sit properly in a chair, and Byleth tried her best to mimic her stepmother’s pose as Hanneman went through the motions of pouring the tea, before settling into his creaking high back chair.

Trips gracefully picked up a cup and saucer with both hands, delicately holding the cup by its handle as she sipped carefully at the steaming liquid. She sighed in pleasure. “Black tea flavored with the essence of bergamot! Professor Hanneman, you have exquisite taste.”

“Well now, Lady Beatrix.” Hanneman’s bushy grey eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Not many in all of Fodlan have such discriminating palettes. If I may presume, are you a declasse noble like myself?”

Trips smiled easily. “You do presume, but I am afraid your shaft is off the mark. In addition to being a town doctor, I have also served as a village apothecary. A discriminating palate was essential in my line of work.”

“You were a noble?” asked Byleth, after she had sipped her own tea. It tasted soothing and floral, with a hint of lemony flavor, but that was all she could tell. She wondered what bergamots were.

“Ah, yes,” said Professor Hanneman, briefly looking at Trips for a moment longer. He turned his attention to Byleth as he sipped at his own cup. “I was a noble of the Essar family in the Empire, an offshoot of the Varleys. We possessed the lineage of the Crest of Indech in our blood. My father was a bearer of a Major Crest of Indech. However, during my career, I saw the cost that the current system of Crests was having on...families. Male children of the nobility are treated as breeding bulls, Crest or no Crest, while noblewomen are judged solely for their fertility and little else. As a Crest scholar, many nobles and wealthy merchants came to me, hoping that I could make their wives or daughters have more than ten children or increase their sons’ breeding potential...or their own. It was really quite disgusting. Eventually I rejected such a life entirely, and renounced my ties to the Empire and its nobility, well before the Insurrection of the Seven and the rebellion of House Hrym. I came here to Garreg Mach, to find peace and quiet...as well as to have ample opportunities for my research, of course.”

“Of course,” said Trips quietly. “You are to be commended, Professor Hanneman. I wish more of the nobility had your foresight.”

Hanneman peered again at Trips, and said slowly, “Well, I admit my past experiences have colored my research. But by studying Crests from all over Fodlan...and by having samples of each type of Crest bearing blood...I hope to eventually do away with the current system of nobility all together. Or, at the very least, make it no longer the destructive force it is to children and families. And I have Lady Rhea to thank for providing my inspiration.”

Byleth sipped her tea, but she noticed Trips was losing some of her poise. The healer set down her saucer and mug with a clink. “How so?” she asked.

Hanneman smiled slowly behind his mustache. “Transfusions,” he whispered. “It took a long while, but I eventually teased the story out from Lady Rhea and Seteth, as well as Alois. Tell me, Lady Beatrix, how old is Captain--I mean, excuse me--Professor Jeralt?”

Byleth could tell that Trips was nervous. “Older than dirt, according to him,” she mumbled. She seemed to be trying to shake her head at Hanneman.

Hanneman ignored her and turned to Byleth. “Well, Lady Byleth? Do you know how old your father is?” His monocle seemed to gleam from the sunset in the window beyond.

Byleth shook her head. “I’m not sure. He’s never told me. I’m twenty-one, though, so I’d guess he’s in his...forties?” Even as she said it, Byleth knew that was wrong. Her father had looked as if he had been in his forties for her entire life.

Hanneman stayed still for a moment, and then nodded quickly. “Of course. In his forties. However, we have more important business at hand.” He opened a desk drawer, and drew a curious device out. It looked like a large magnifying glass, except it was tinted purple and covered in runes. “I called you here to discover if you had a Crest yourself, Lady Byleth.” He rose and stepped from behind the desk, moving to stand over Byleth. “If you don’t mind, hold out your arm. Either one is fine.”

Trips rose herself, her hands clutching her birchwood staff as she stood behind Byleth. She laid a reassuring hand on Byleth’s shoulder as the young woman set down her teacup and saucer, then held out her right arm before her for Professor Hanneman to examine. He slowly moved the strange purple glass object over her arm, murmuring unheard words under his breath as he did so, and Byleth could feel the subliminal tingle of magic being worked. The device began to glow faintly, but nothing happened for a long moment.

Suddenly, the glass blazed forth white with a pattern of lines and curves. “By the Goddess and all her Saints…” Hanneman whispered.

“What Crest is that? I’m looking at it upside down, I don’t recognize it,” said Trips, her voice sounding higher than normal. Her hand was clutching Byleth’s shoulder tightly.

Hanneman inverted the device for the healer to examine. Trips gasped audibly. “No...that can’t be right…”

Byleth felt concerned, as if something was going over her head. She twisted in the chair to look at Trips, who was paler than Byleth had ever seen her. “What is it?”

“It...may be nothing, Lady Byleth,” said Hanneman slowly, almost reverently. “I will need to cross reference this. There have been missing Crests that have turned up before, spontaneously, in bloodlines. This may be one of them. I do not even know if it is Major or Minor. I will also need to consult with our resident librarian, Tomas.” He looked up with a piercing gaze at Trips. “You appear to be something of a scholar yourself, Lady Beatrix. Will you assist me?”

“Yes...at least for the next few days,” Trips said slowly. Byleth stared worriedly at her stepmother, who looked as if something had just walked over her grave. The older woman quickly noticed and forced her voice to lightness. “Kid, do you want to visit your dad? I think his room is just across the hall, two doors down. You’re not going to see him again until the mock battle.”

Byleth rose slowly, looking at the white pattern on the device with curiosity. “So does that mean I have a Crest?”

Hanneman was busy looking at a chart on his desk, looking back and forth between that and the device. Trips patted Byleth on the shoulder in a reassuring manner, although her fingers were still shaky. “You certainly have a Crest, Byleth. We’re just not...not sure which one it is yet. For now, you’re going to have to be satisfied with being the medical mystery you’ve been all your life. I’ll talk with Professor Hanneman and we’ll try to narrow down the possibilities for you.”

“Oh. Ok,” Byleth said with uncertainty as she went to the door. She leaned closer to Trips, even though Hanneman appeared oblivious to their conversation. “It doesn’t have anything to do with...me, right?” she whispered.

Her stepmother looked helpless, which sent an unpleasant surprise through Byleth, as she said, “I don’t know, kid. I really don’t. That’s what I’m going to try to find out. When we have a good guess, I’ll let you know, ok?” The young Knight nodded at her stepmother once and left the office, closing the door behind her.

*

The healer turned around to see Professor Hanneman regarding her. He had overheard them after all. “Thank you for being circumspect, Lady Beatrix. I trust you realize that this might be the discovery of a lifetime?”

Trips snorted and ran a hand through her short hair. “Or it could be the mistake that ruins your career and reputation, Hanneman. King Nemesis had no children, according to every available source. There is no evidence of this Crest ever showing up in history, in any Saint’s or noble’s genealogy. It’s unlikely in the extreme.”

“Oh, I agree entirely. But we know so little about what makes a Crest reveal itself in a human being, don’t we? There was the rediscovery of the Crest of Lamine, for example. House Lamine failed to produce Crest bearing heirs for six generations, and had to sell their estates and Hero’s Relic to simply avoid starvation. Then a descendant of that line marries a humble carpenter, and viola…”

“...all of their children ended up with Major Crests of Lamine, forming the House of Martritz. One of the few noble Houses named after a woman. Everyone’s heard of that,” Trips finished Hanneman’s thought. She moved to look at the device and the chart on his desk. “What about a Lost Crest? There’s only six that we know of based on the historical record.”

“That is a possibility as well. My, my. It is stimulating to discuss these matters with an equal, Lady Beatrix.” He resumed his seat behind his desk and clasped his hands. “Most of my students and colleagues tend to ignore the study of Crestology as much as they can, but you appear to be quite informed.”

Trips smiled demurely at Hanneman’s directness, and settled slowly back into her chair. “Yes. Well, you can blame my education. I was trained at the Royal Academy of Sorcery in Fhirdiad. Many of my classmates were among the nobility. It was distressing to witness so much promise and power wasted, whether a person had a Crest or not. Extraordinarily talented and hard-working Crestless children were disinherited, while wastrels with Crests could set themselves up for a life of ease as long as they danced to their parents’ tune. And all for what? A power or talent in your heritage that manifests itself capriciously, if at all?”

Hanneman was nodding as Trips was speaking, but then shook his head at the last. “I am afraid I must disagree with you there, Lady Beatrix. We appear to both agree that the current system is untenable, based on moral and practical grounds. But the reason it has endured is because the Crest-bearing have a tremendous advantage over the Crestless. Perhaps, in times of peace, Crests give little advantage in the more mundane activities. But in times of conflict, their true potential is expressed.”

Trips’ face became sad and thoughtful. “And who could compete against that, or an indestructible Relic that can carve through magic as easily as it could steel?” She sighed. “You are right, Professor Hanneman. It is simply depressing to think about.”

Hanneman adjusted his monocle. He leaned forward and said carefully, “Lady Beatrix, we have only been briefly acquainted, but I believe I would like to hear more about you...and Lady Byleth, of course.”

Trips looked at Hanneman frankly, then gave him a wide smile. “Of course, Professor Hanneman. But first...I would like some more tea, if you don’t mind.”

*

Byleth exited Professor Hanneman’s office and closed the door behind, hearing the murmurs of Trips and the Professor deep in conversation. She didn’t know Hanneman very well, but she trusted Trips to stand up for her, if need be. She looked down the quickly darkening hallway to notice Claude lounging outside a door that must lead to her father’s office. He looked up at her as she walked towards him.

“Heya, Miss Jeralt. So, did you find out from the Father of Crestology what Crest you have?” he asked, smiling his easy smile.

Byleth looked around the hallway, seeing no one. This was the hour when almost everyone was in the dining hall for the evening meal. She locked eyes with the Leicester nobleman. “Claude. Were you eavesdropping?” she asked in a flat tone.

“Miss Jeralt! I am wounded to the quick! Does this look like the face of a person who would drop an eave?”

“Claude,” she said warningly, raising her voice.

Claude’s face lost its expression of poorly feigned innocence. “Ok, fine. I’ll admit I was curious. Like a cat, but um, don’t kill me. It's just that...Crests and what they can do are something of an obsession of mine. Hanneman was so excited he spilt the beans to his class about you, and I overheard Annette gossiping with Lysithea.”

Byleth nodded in gratitude at his late attempt at honesty. She should have guessed this issue might become a big deal. Having a Crest meant you were related to nobility, somehow, someway. She briefly wondered if it had anything to do with Lady Rhea’s interest in her, and felt an uncomfortable flash of recognition that it likely had everything to do with that. What if her father was a former noble as well as former Knight? She then remembered Hanneman saying last night during their party that her father had a Crest of Seiros...the Crest of Adrestian Imperial royalty. What if her father was related to Edelgard? What if she was related to Edelgard?

Discomfited by her realizations, Byleth couldn’t answer Claude immediately. Unusually, he did not attempt to fill the silence with chatter, and even stepped backward slightly to allow her more space. However, he folded his arms and leaned against the wall, patiently waiting for a response.

Byleth had to fold her arms herself, more to hug herself than to be defensive. “Is my father in?” she asked. She didn’t want to look at Claude, feeling confused at what her answer should be. But she saw him nod slowly.

“He is, Miss Jeralt. I was just going to make some plans with him for the mock battle. But...if you need to visit him privately, I promise I won’t intrude. Pinky swear.”

Byleth had to smile at that, but it faded quickly. “I think I know how much a pinky swear from you is worth, Claude. But it’s fine. I think I’d like for a friend to be with me now. The only conclusive thing Professor Hanneman found out about me is that I’m weird. Like that’s news to me.”

Claude’s eyes narrowed. “Then you do have a Crest--?”

Her shoulders shrugged. “Apparently. But they don’t know which one. Trips is going to help him find out.”

The nobleman looked briefly lost. “They...don’t know which Crest you have?”

“That’s what they both said,” said Byleth, who could only shrug again at Claude as she opened the door. “I told you I was weird.”

“Who’s weird?” asked Jeralt. He was standing over his desk in his new armor, examining a map, with several other scrolls nearby. His old rusty dented armor and orange tabard hung on an armor rack nearby. Lamps were already lit, hanging on sconces embedded in the monastery’s stone and mortar walls. 

“Me,” said Byleth, coming over to look at the map with Claude. She could feel her father’s eyes on her, but she ignored him and studiously examined the sparse markings on the map. “I’m taking the company with me tomorrow to secure the field for the students, along with Catherine and Shamir and their Knights. I don’t think we’ll see any action.”

After a beat, Jeralt said, “Probably not. Lord Gloucester secures his borders quite well, and he knows we’re coming. You might run into some wildlife, though. Cattle herds tend to attract dire wolves and rocs.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t kill them if you find any, Miss Jeralt. Just light enough torches and bonfires to scare the local fauna away. I wouldn’t mind a bit if Lord Gloucester’s herds just happened to be decimated by a bunch of fire-crazed predators…” said Claude smoothly, but there was a glint in his eye.

Byleth looked at Claude with mild surprise, but Jeralt only snorted a laugh at the vicious plan. “Nice try, Golden boy. I don’t think the Knights of Seiros want to be involved in internal Leceister politics anymore than they have to be. Maybe when you’re all grown up and graduated from the academy that’s something you can do.”

“I guess you don’t like Lorenz or his dad,” said Byleth.

Claude put his arms behind his head. “Oh, I like Lorenz just fine, despite his ego. But his ego is just a faint little star next to the sun-sized ego of his father. Count Gloucester has some very personal ideas of who should be the next leader of the Leicester Alliance, and thus the man is contrary to my existence. I’ve had to foil...let me think...at least four assassination attempts.” He waved an arm expansively towards the window. “I know you’re still adjusting to this lifestyle, Miss Jeralt. Just remember, all the nobles you’ve met here at the monastery are the young and sweet ones. The really mean ones are back home on their territories busy plotting against their fellow man.”

“I think Byleth’s done fine for herself so far,” said Jeralt defensively.

“She has,” admitted Claude. “But soon word of her exploits is going to spread. Lorenz will write to his father, and Hilda will write to her brother, Lord Holst. Ferdinand will tattle everything to the Imperial Prime Minister, if Count Vestra doesn’t already know. And the entire Blue Lion House is already swooning over the newest Knight of Seiros, aside from maybe Felix.”

“Why would any of those nobles care about me? I’m just a merc--I mean, Knight now,” wondered Byleth.

“Not just any knight,” said Claude, his face severe. “You’re a Knight who helped personally save the three royal heirs of Fodlan, including myself, and thank you again by the way. But you’re also a Knight of Seiros at age twenty-one...not a record, I think, but still pretty remarkable. And if you have a Crest, that makes you a Holy Knight of Seiros. You’ll probably be getting lots of mail soon. And visitors.”

“Goddess damn it,” sighed Jeralt, collapsing into a protesting chair, his eyes far away. “He’s right, Byleth. I didn’t even think about this possibility. Damn Rhea and Seteth. No, wait, excuse me--Fuck them.” Claude looked impressed at the casual blasphemy, and Byleth felt a bit of alarm at her father’s reaction. She could tell her father was furious, but bottling it up. His scarred face looked up at his daughter. “So Hanneman said you have a Crest?”

Byleth spread her arm out that Hanneman had examined. “He and Trips think so. But they don’t know which one yet. They said it might be a missing Crest and something about having to do research in the library.”

“Garreg Mach has the best library in the world,” said Claude confidently. “And the librarian, Tomas, is basically a human encyclopedia. I’m sure he’ll have an answer after the mock battle.”

Byleth looked at her father, who still appeared upset. “But that shouldn’t matter, right? I’m sworn to Lady Rhea and the Church, now. I can’t fight for any other noble unless I’m ordered to.”

Claude did his best impression of Alois. “It’s not your martial prowess they want, but your marital!”

Jeralt groaned at the pun, and Byleth looked only more confused. “Marital? As in...marriage? You mean nobles would want to marry...me?” she asked in growing astonishment.

“Through any means possible,” said Claude grinning, thought his smile quickly fled. “I know first hand that noblewomen with Crests of any sort are especially prized by the Fodlan nobility and families. I don’t think your dad is going to force you into an arranged marriage, so you have that going for you, but you’re still going to have to beat off suitors with a stick, because they’ll be lining up for miles. I’ve also heard about attempted kidnappings of noblewomen, and even assassinations by particularly unscrupulous families to prevent another noble family from getting a brace of Crest-bearing heirs.”

“I’d like to see them try,” said Byleth in a dead tone.

“I’m not saying it’s common, but it’s best to be prepared, right?” Claude paced as he mused thoughtfully, “I think the Church of Seiros will protect you from most of it. Not many nobles want to risk an excommunication from Lady Rhea by dishonoring one of her Knights, even now when anticlerical sentiment seems to be on the rise in Fodlan. But if any noble thought they might get away with it, they’d jump at the chance.”

The thought of some noble idiot trying to claim her as a prize made Byleth simply reject that thought, with every fiber of her being. She sat down in a chair herself, her mind trying to absorb all the implications of her new status.

Jeralt spoke with a Captain’s voice. “Byleth, we’ll make a plan for this once we get back. Maybe you can ask Catherine how she handles it. I’d imagine once she broke enough noses and jaws the suitors backed off, but I’d prefer to avoid that. In the meantime...take Zarad with you. He can watch your back personally while you’re in the field.”

“I can take care of myself,” Byleth told her father, folding her arms defensively.

“I know that, and you know I know that,” said Jeralt with sternness. “Call it a Dad thing, if you want. But take him with you. I want you to have a good scout and woodsman by your side. And...someone you know,” he admitted, less harshly.

Byleth wanted to argue more, but then she realized with a start that she might never fight side by side with her father again. Both of them had separate duties and responsibilities within the Church now. While she was anxious for a chance to lead the former mercenary company on her own, making her own decisions in the field and not just simply follow orders, Zarad would be a link between her and the rest of the company. In fact...this would be the first time in years they had not all been together for any length of time.

Fighting a vague sense of uneasy disappointment, Byleth looked at her father seriously. “Is it too late to go back to Remire village?”

“I hear you, kid. Believe me, I hear you.”

*

Two days later Byleth was cursing her father for his foresight as she quickly dismounted her bay warmare. Activity had erupted along the column as two huge dire wolves crashed into the company while in the woods, their snarls and growls sounding over the screams of men and horses. The wolves were peppered with arrow shafts up and down their bodies, weakening them, but each was still easily twice as large as the biggest horse. Byleth shouted orders before one of the animals came close to her, biting at a kicking, screaming packhorse. She drew her sword and lunged at the head of the creature, piercing the snout but her attack stopped short by thick bone. A slavering snap in her direction barely missed her arm as she slashed desperately to keep teeth as big as her head at bay. The wolf soon quickly lost interest in her as her men, all hand picked and trained by her father, rushed to blindside the animal and pierce it with barbed hunting spears. The wolf spun and snapped at the pain, but its flanks were now punctured and the animal was quickly losing breath and strength. Byleth turned from the dying animal to look for the other one. It too was surrounded and wounded, but in its single minded viciousness it had pounced on one of her men, pinning him to the ground as he weakly cried out in helpless terror.

Byleth screamed in rage as she ran towards the creature, holding her sword against her as she used her own weight and momentum to sink her blade below the ribcage. A gush of steaming, musky blood and other fluids spurted from the wound as the wolf attempted to twist and bite at this new small morsel. The hilt of her sword wretched from her hands, Byleth tried to roll forward to evade, but the wolf’s jaws clamped shut on her cape. She was jerked backwards into the air and fell hard, helpless on the ground, but the sword in wolf’s torn abdomen finally registered in its feral brain. With desperate, jerking hops, it attempted to flee, but was soon brought down with more men rushing forward to stab the animal with spear and sword. With a rumbling, pathetic whine, the animal finally died.

Zarad and Shamir, along with her score of rangers and archers in forest green armor, came out of the trees with bows drawn, but quickly relaxed and moved forward to provide assistance. Dazed from the brief exertion and her near-brush with death, Byleth was slow to notice Zarad’s hand above her. She gratefully accepted the help and he lifted her easily to her feet.

“Sorry, Byleth. We killed two of them, but these beasts made it past us.” Zarad looked at the massive corpses. “Biggest damn wolves I’ve ever seen. They must’ve caught scent of the horses.”

“Do you think there are any more?” Byleth asked.

“Probably not any that we need to worry about,” said Shamir, joining them. “The ones we killed earlier were juveniles. These two were the alphas. If there’s any more they’ll probably be even smaller.”

Byleth nodded. “I think this might be it, but go ahead and take your skirmishers up north to Catherine’s position when you’re ready.” She looked over at the men, listening to those which were groaning with injuries, as well as restless cries of horses that were lamed from the attack. “We might as well make our southern picket here. I’ll send Zarad and a half-company to the east. Tell everyone to build banked bonfires and light plenty of torches. Just in case.”

“It will be done,” said Shamir. She left to gather her men as Duncan approached. The brown haired young man looked despondent.

“I’m sorry to say, Captain, that Eric’s dead. The wolf got his throat.”

Byleth felt...something…inside of her that went through her before she could identify it. She said, “Let’s get him stripped and have his kit secured. We’ll dig a grave for him tonight.”

“Yes, Miss,” said Duncan. His eyes flicked to Zarad, then back to Byleth. He moved uneasily and added, “It’s just...a lot of us felt close to Eric. He was one of us. We’d like for you to say some words, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I knew Eric,” began Zarad. “He was a good man. He sent coin back to his family. If you want, Byleth, I can…”

“No,” said Byleth shortly, cutting off her friend. “He was my responsibility. My soldier. He died under my watch.” She looked directly at Duncan. “Call every man over that’s not busy.”

She turned her back on Zarad and Duncan, wanting to ignore their looks, wanting to see the remains of the man who had died because of her carelessness. She looked blank to the rest of the company as she stared at her soldier’s mangled body, but inside her thoughts tormented her. Her fault. Her arrogance. Her infatuation with herself had killed this man. If she had been quicker, or stronger, he would still be breathing, and his wife and children would still have a father. She desperately wanted to reject the reality of Eric’s death...

Everything seemed to warp. Instants seemed infinite to her. Her anger, her pain, and her sorrow overwhelmed time and space, bending them to her will with power made incarnate. Byleth felt herself dissolve, her life and memories vanishing as something else rose in its place. She abstractly wondered why she wasn’t terrified or alarmed by what was happening, but it felt as natural as breathing.

She had turned quickly away from the first wolf, trusting in her men to guard her back. She sprinted forward to the second, just as Eric missed a thrust and the drooling maw brought him low. Her sword entered the wolf’s side, and this time she kept her grip on the hilt and used her momentum and weight to hang onto the blade, the edge parting thick muscle widely to expose guts and blood, a foul smelling tide that washed over her…

The blue haired woman in soiled white armor blinked. She was standing in the woods again, and for instant of soul-searing terror, she desperately tried to recall her name. But then she heard it, from voices all around her. _Byleth._ _My name is Byleth._

“...Miss Byleth, that was a hell of a move. You saved Eric’s life, no doubt,” said a relieved Duncan, standing tall before her. Zarad and Shamir were staring at her in admiration. Men were clapping and cheering, while Eric was alive and only slightly wounded. His blue eyes held tears of gratitude.

Her white armor and hair was covered in reeking blood and bile, and her sword was still stuck in the wolf lying dead several yards nearby. Byleth felt dizzy and nauseous, her head aching and her muscles trembling in reaction and fatigue. She looked to her men and officers she tried to catch her breath.

“Um. Yeah. Just doing what came naturally, I guess.”

As people crowded around her, she heard Sothis’ voice suddenly whisper loudly in her brain. _Remember, you cannot save them all._

Byleth felt her thoughts turn white-hot at the Goddess. _I can._ _I will._

Sothis sat alone on her stone throne, staring at the green wisps that swirled in agitation in the blackness around her. Her eyes looked sad. Finally she whispered again, to herself. “Foolish child...do you honestly think you are the first one to try?”

*

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of little AU touches. Cathy and Shammy are an item, Hanneman is actually competent (there's only like 22 Crests, so it shouldn't take that long to narrow it down). 
> 
> Also some of my ideas about Crests and how they would be such a drag on society but enforced by a bunch of Relic-wielding, Crest-bearing nobles nobody can really compete against and that are officially sanctioned by the Church. If you think about it, I bet a lot of disinherited noble children without Crests get sucked up by the Church of Seiros like a vacuum, in a sort of mutual self interest pact.
> 
> One weird loophole of 3H is that Byleth never gets acknowledged as nobility for having their Crest. I'll touch on that later.
> 
> Also, no Divine Pulse candy. It will have to have a limit and a consequence.


	13. The Mocking Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Build a man a fire, and he'll be warm for a day. Set a man on fire, and he'll be warm for the rest of his life.
> 
> \--Terry Pratchett

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an absolute blast to write.

Ch 13

The Mocking Battle

The students of Garegg Mach arrived two days later. Some of the men attempted to skin and cook the massive wolf corpses, but were dismayed by the prospect of trying to clean or even transport such a gigantic hide. The flesh of the wolves also tasted foul, no matter how much it was smoked or salted. Finally Byleth ordered the corpses burned, which required the attention of a full company and most of a day. Thick, greasy smoke still hung in the woods as the professors and House leaders approached Byleth, Shamir, Catherine and Zarad. Trips was also there, her face looking annoyed as a chattering Flayn walked beside her.

Byleth addressed the group, but only had eyes for Edelgard. “Sorry about the smell,” she called loudly as the group moved within speaking range. All were wrinkling their noses aside from Dimitri, her father, and Claude.

“Blech,” said Professor Manuela, taking a quick sniff of a powder from a small ornate box. It quickly vanished back into her robes. “Really. Can’t we move to a different venue for this bout?”

Catherine laughed. “We’d have to move the pickets and patrols surrounding this area. If you’re willing to wait another two days…”

Jeralt regarded the foul smelling fire embankments. “Wolves?” he teresly asked.

Byleth felt a hand on her shoulder. “Nearly the size of elephants, Captain. Byleth killed the pack leader herself. Thanks to her skill and leadership, we had no significant casualties, although some poor horses had to be slaughtered,” said Zarad, his scarred face still showing admiration.

All eyes turned to her, aside from Hanneman and Trips, who were soon involved in a whispering conversation. Byleth felt blood rush to her face at Edelgard’s frank gaze of respect. She had to avert her own eyes as she muttered, “Zarad and Shamir had already wounded them, and brought down the rest of the pack with the archers.”

Shamir nodded to Jeralt. “I don’t know how you raised a modest mercenary, Professor Jeralt, but you did. Your daughter disemboweled the animal in a single strike. Don’t let her devalue herself.”

“I won’t,” declared Jeralt, his lips in a proud grin. “Feel free to pat yourself on the back, Byleth. You did good.”

“Lady Byleth,” said Dimitri in a forward voice. “That is a not-inconsiderable feat. Please accept your accolades. Sham modesty is just as insulting as bragging.”

“Wow,” exclaimed Claude with a brilliant grin of his own. “You know you’re good when even Dimitri is telling you soldier up and accept praise.”

“I think it is a fair question to wonder what this Knight of Seiros cannot do,” announced Edelgard, a large training axe resting easily on her small shoulder. “I fear our poor exercise will seem anticlimactic compared to her exploits.”

“Well yes, Princess, losing a mock battle is usually anticlimactic…”

“Claude, please cease taunting Edelgard…”

The three royal nobles were starting to argue again, and their professors’ expressions behind them turned long-suffering. Jeralt reached into his belt for a small silver flask. After taking a long pull, he handed it without looking to Maneula. She drained it.

Catherine raised her voice over the chatter. “If My Lords and Lady are quite done with their discussion, we can get this mock battle underway…” Both Edelgard and Dimitri quieted down with their faces showing anger and resentment, while Claude’s smirk was smugly self-satisfied.

Shamir addressed the assembly. “I’ll lead Professor Hanneman’s class to the north with Flayn. Byleth will lead Professor Manuela’s class further east. Professor Jeralt’s group will stay here with Beatrix and Catherine and only be allowed to advance from this position in two hours. If any student or professor runs into our picket line or patrols, they will be disqualified for the remainder of the battle. The signal to begin will be a fire lit on that bluff to the west.” She pointed to a ridgeline where a small group of Knights were camped, white tents visible against the green and brown background.

The blonde Holy Knight stepped forward as well. “We’re using training weapons, and relying on your honor as future nobility and Knights to cease fighting and sit for the remainder of the battle when you receive what would normally be a fatal wound. Transgressions on this point will lead to expulsion from the Academy, so yeah...don’t do it. We have many observers, some of which have spyglasses,” warned Catherine.

“Please remind your classmates that this is a mock battle, not a real one,” added Trips, raising her voice to include the other students. “Spells should be designed to incapacitate or clearly mark their targets, and Crest bearers should rely on skill instead of strength. I’d prefer to not have to try to reattach any severed limbs today.”

“Wait, so I shouldn’t have brought my razor tipped arrows?” joked Claude. Everyone in the group ignored him.

Byleth bowed to Edelgard and Professor Manuela, wanting to be formal in public and for the occasion. “If Professor Manuela and your Imperial Highness would follow me? We will gather up your classmates and depart.”

“Of course, Knight Byleth,” said Edelgard, smiling at the pleasing image of Byleth bowing before her. She turned to face Dimitri and Claude for one last jibe. “I do hope both of you will give it your all. I intend to disabuse you of any antiquated notions of chivalry you might harbor.”

“Fear not, Edelgard,” said Dimitri firmly. “I have always respected you as a worthy opponent. But I plan to uphold the Kingdom tradition of sending the Empire of Adrestia running with its tail between its legs.”

“Oh, goody, is it tete-a-tete time? Ok. Here we go. Ahem. I intend on beating both of you with my awesome new professor and then bragging about it for the rest of my life. Sounds good? Great! I’m glad we had this chat. I think it really helped me grow as a person,” declared Claude. Both Dimitri and Edelgard turned their backs and studiously ignored the Duke’s heir, refusing to be baited anymore before the battle.

The groups of Knights and students began to disperse to their assigned positions. Jeralt smiled and waved to Byleth as his class of Golden Deers gathered around him and Trips, nervously chatting or making battle plans in excited whispers, aside from the pale blue haired girl, Marianne, who looked as if she were ill. Shamir led the Blue Lions to the north, while Byleth walked with the Black Eagles towards the east. Zarad nodded and winked to Byleth before turning to back to the forest, intent on patrolling the perimeter of the field of combat. She wanted to walk with Edelgard, but Hubert and Ferdinand seemed determined to monopolize the Princess’ attention during their short march on pre-battle trivia. The Imperial violet eyes sought out her own at one point, and Byleth tried her best to give her friend what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

Somehow during the short walk she ended up in the middle of the Black Eagle students. At the rear, the Brigid Princess was having a stilted, one sided conversation about hunting with the nervous Bernadetta. Professor Manuela and Dorothea were talking and laughing ahead of her, arm in arm. Byleth could not help but overhear the conversation between the two remaining students, Caspar and Linhardt.

“...you have to have a Crest to do that, right? I mean, killing a wolf that size in one hit? Did you see the bones in the pit?”

A voice yawned before ending in a sigh. “I did. But it’s not outside the realm of possibility for someone normal to do it. She admitted she had help.”

“Yeah, but that’s just a Knight being a Knight. You gotta support your team. I mean, Edelgard’s impressed, right?”

The other voice started lecturing. “Casper, if you paid any attention in class...or even cracked open a book...you’d know that some people with Crests can sense Crests in others. I sense nothing from the new Knight in front of us. Ergo, she does not have a Crest.”

“Well, the other argo might be your lazy ass is wrong. I’m a pretty good judge of fighters! At least I actually go out and train and see what other people can do...”

“Please. Like muscles achieve anything in this world…”

An answering laugh. “Oh yeah! Don’t make me prove what muscles can do to you, boy…”

Byleth had had enough. She stopped shortly and looked behind her, seeing a weary Linhardt trying to ignore an increasingly excited Caspar. “Excuse me,” she said to them.

The blue haired young man rolled his eyes in exasperation to his companion. “Thanks Linhardt. You and your big mouth…”

The green haired man yawned, and then said, “I could yawn bigger than Fodlan, and that still could not compete with your loud voice…”

“Loud!? I’m not loud!” yelled Caspar indignantly. Birds in the woods nearby screeched and flew away in fright.

Byleth interposed herself between the two students, as they continued walking forward. “I simply thought...that it might be more convenient for the two of you to talk with me, instead of behind my back.”

Linhardt appraised Byleth frankly with half-lidded eyes. “Well, it certainly can simplify our argument. So, Lady Byleth? Do you have a Crest?”

“Yes,” said Byleth shortly.

“I knew it! You’re some unacknowledged child of a noble, right? Maybe you’re disinherited like me, right? That’s why folks like you and me gotta train and fight so much. Check out the result right here! A hundred and fifty one pounds of pure rockhard meat!” grinned Caspar as he thumped his abdomen with a fist.

His friend Linhardt barely stifled another sigh. “Please just ignore him, Lady Byleth, or he might start beating his chest and racing about on all fours.” The listless young man ignored his friend’s shout of protest. “So, Professor Hanneman prodded and poked you as well? Which Crest do you have?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Byleth. “Professor Hanneman said he had to do some research.”

“Well now, that is a surprise,” said Linhardt, sounding interested for the first time. “There are the ten Elite Crests and the five Holy Crests, but there are supposedly six missing Crests as well. No one knows if those bloodlines still exist. There was the House of Aubin, which was wiped out in Imperial Year 467, then all of House Timetheos supposedly died in the Plague of Blood in year 731…”

“You’re warped, Lin. We’re about to fight a battle, and you’re getting excited about Crests and century old dead people. Can you at least get your head in the game a little bit?” complained Caspar.

“You’re a simian, Caspar,” groaned Linhardt.

“Why thank you!” beamed his classmate.

“In any case, why bother with the effort?” the young mage said snidely. “The Golden Deer are obviously going to win. Lady Byleth can’t help but be biased in favor of her father’s class.”

Byleth ignored the comment, as well as Caspar’s continuing chatter. She had known that this issue would come up, but Catherine and Shamir had dismissed her earlier concerns, rather blithely to Byleth’s dismay. She gazed down the trailbroken path to the see the appointed starting place the scouts had marked days before. “There is your initial position, up ahead,” she called loudly to the rest of the Black Eagle class. “You should have an hour to position yourselves as you wish, or form any defensive fortifications or traps.” The Black Eagles quickly gathered together in a huddle, eager to discuss their battle plan.

Hubert smiled coldly, a meaningless movement of his lips. “There are defensive runes I could draw, but alas, I know only the lethal ones.”

“Now Hubie, you can’t kill anything today. But you do look handsome when you’re bloodthirsty. Maybe when we get back to the monastery, I’ll let you slaughter something and make me dinner to get you in the mood,” Dorothea flirted with a toss of her brown locks.

“Professor? Lady Edelgard? Is it...um….ok...if I go...ahead-and-hide-away-thanks?” whined Bernadetta.

“Yes! It is important that Bernadetta and I hide ourselves for the bushings. There will be many bushes today with our bluntful arrows,” said Petra with excitement.

“I believe you mean ambushes, Petra darling. There’s something to that idea...most of use can use magic or wield bows, or throw hatchets and spears. So now we just need good cover and placement…” mused Professor Manuela, looking around the clearing into the trees.

Caspar scoffed loudly. “Ambushes? No way! That’s a cowardly tactic, and it just shows you’re weak.”.

“Or it shows intelligence,” corrected Linhardt without missing a beat.

Ferdinand stepped forward, right in front of Edelgard as she was about to speak. “I must agree with Caspar on this. I am of House Aegir, and the main representative of the Adrestian Empire at Garreg Mach! A forceful display of strength is just what is needed to put the Blue Lions and Golden Deer in their place,” declared the proud nobleman as he lifted up his lance to gleam in the sun. The entire group was soon arguing back and forth loudly, with the exception of the Princess and the Knight.

Byleth used the opportunity to discreetly sidle closer to Edelgard, who was looking up at the blue sky with despair. As soon she got near enough, Edelgard whispered crossly to her, “See what I must deal with daily?”

“My sympathies. Your classmates do seem...spirited,” said Byleth in a similar low voice.

“Spirited yes, but they’re all fractious noble children. Although Dorothea and Manuela are commoners, they certainly have enough attitude to be nobles. All they want to do is butt heads uselessly. We’ve already wasted at least five minutes.”

Byleth looked back at the gathering. Hubert, Manuela, Dorothea, and Linhardt were arguing about which spells were acceptably non-lethal, most of them looking impatient with an evilly smiling Hubert. Caspar and Ferdinand were trying to convince Bernadetta and Petra to cover them as they charged the enemy. She mused, “Maybe you can decide tactics by voting...that’s what I did with my dad when the company disagreed sometimes…”

Edelgard looked blankly at her. “What’s ‘voting?’”

She stared at her friend, pleasantly surprised that she could teach the noble Princess something. “Like vowing. Everyone gets a choice between several alternatives. They vow themselves to their choice, and then you count who is voting for each choice, and the majority rules. Sometimes our company did that, especially when it came to matters of pay and shares and contracts. My dad didn’t want to do what a majority of the men were against.”

“I see. That seems logical. But we’re limited for time…”

“Good point. I guess the other thing you can do is compromise. Let everyone do a bit of what they want. Hubert wants to set traps, so let him select the placement, but only allow Professor Manuela and Dorothea to make them. Bernadetta wants to run away, so position her with Petra so she can’t. Ferdinand and Caspar want to charge in, so let them, and then use them as bait.”

Edelgard was now smiling wickedly up at her. “Well now, look at you. I have thoroughly corrupted you, it seems. A Knight of Seiros, supposed to be an impartial observer, now giving unofficial tactical advice to the Black Eagles before a battle. What would Lady Rhea think?”

Byleth flushed and muttered, “Brat,” her face holding nothing but wide-eyed innocence when Edelgard’s gaze turned sardonic. “I’m only giving it to you because you will likely need it, against Dimitri and my father. Although the Prince does...care about you, I think. If you personally face him, he’s unlikely to use his full strength.”

“Really? How...interesting,” said Edelgard, her face composed back into a mask. “That is a useful tidbit to know. Although I can’t understand his inordinate interest in me, unless it’s our mutual dislike for Claude.”

“Claude’s not that bad,” said Byleth dismissively, but seeing Edelgard start to scowl at her, she added, “Making a joke about everything is just the way he deals with life. He’s more serious and behaved with me because of my dad.”

Edelgard was gazing at her sternly, gauging her words. She said slowly, “You are a curious person. You have the trust of Dimitri and Claude, and yet...you also have mine as well, I suppose, since you are telling me all of this.” Edelgard’s eyes thinned suspiciously at her. “But why?”

“Edel...gard,” Byleth amended quickly, preventing herself from using the diminutive. She was getting too familiar. “I...may have been told some things in confidence. It’s something I would like to talk to you about...alone, if we may. But not now.”

Edelgard’s artful white eyebrow rose up, and Byleth felt a brief pang of jealousy at the Princess’ expression. She had once tried to mimic the look in a mirror, and had yet to achieve the skill of it. Instead she just seemed to scowl unattractively or raise both eyebrows up like an unlettered loon. But the Princess accepted her explanation for the moment. Byleth could see Edelgard’s patience becoming strained as she returned her attention to her nattering classmates, and the chatter of the group finally eased enough for her to interject her opinion. “Enough of this!” she demanded in a shout to daunt even Caspar. “I have decided on our approach for the mock battle.”

Hubert, Ferdinand, and Caspar crossed their arms almost simultaneously. Dorothea, Manuela, and Linhardt noticed, and sighed in despair. Only Petra and Bernadetta were respectfully attentive and patient towards their House Leader. Byleth leaned back against a nearby tree and prepared herself to watch, wondering how Dimitri and Claude were managing with their classes.

*

“And...Felix...where is Felix?” Prince Dimitri asked, looking about the small clearing that was their starting position. He glanced back at the distant bluff between the trees, anxious for the smoke signal by the Knights’ banner to go up and the battle to begin. He wiped his brow impatiently, wishing he could simply make his headache go away.

“I do not know, Your Highness. I believe he was here a moment ago,” said Dedue, checking his armor, shield, and bone and wood training axe carefully in his calm pre-battle ritual. He paused to examine Dimitri more closely, then added, “Would Your Highness like some water?”

“Ah...yes, thank you, Dedue. That might be just what I need in this heat.”

Ingrid and Sylvain turned back to face Dimitri, giving up on finding Felix in the woods. “Sorry, Your Highness. I think Felix cleared out. Maybe he wants to take on everyone by himself?” apologized Sylvain.

“He’s an idiot,” grumbled Ingrid. “If he pulls a stunt like this in a real battle, he’s going to get himself killed. He’s just like…” She stopped herself and swallowed hard, and turned her face aside for a moment. “Damn stinking smoke...this forest smells like the Valley of Ailiel.”

Sylvain laid a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder, which she shrugged off with a sniff. He sighed and leaned on his training lance. “I guess he got jealous that you sent only Ashe ahead to try to lead the others to us. We don’t have time to go looking for him now. I guess we’d better just stick to our original plan without him.”

Dimitri emptied a waterskin handed to him from Dedue, the cool water in his mouth easing his angry tension only slightly. “Disobeying his commanding officer…” he growled.

Professor Hanneman was attempting to clean his monocle on his robe, and addressed the young prince, “Well, technically, Prince Dimitri, you did not give Felix any specific orders. And you understandably avoided addressing him until the last, and he used that to his advantage against you. Part of your education is knowing how to adapt to the human elements of battle and combat. It is not simply moving markers on a map.”

“I understand that, Professor. But at the same time, an army without discipline and focus is just a mob. The lack of respect and trust…” said Dimitri, raising his voice in anger.

“...are your responsibility, Prince Dimitri. We have to take Felix’s attitudes into account while making plans, and we can only change them with training.” The professor waved a grey robed arm to Shamir and Flayn, observing them in the shade of a large tree. “I would not put Miss Flayn or Shamir on the front lines, for example. There are roles they are much better suited for, based on their skills and their temperament. Felix feels more comfortable fighting alone at the front. In the future, we will have to acknowledge his preferences, or attempt to convince him otherwise. In any case, you now cannot let Felix’s behavior affect your own acumen. Or that of your comrades. You might end up destroying the very virtues you are trying to espouse.”

The Prince breathed hard, trying his best to calm his features and not confirm Hanneman’s words. The Professor may be correct, but the truth of it only fanned his anger. He finally opened his eyes to see Mercedes and Annette smiling before him.

“Don’t worry, Your Highness. If Felix doesn’t want to be a part of our team, that’s his loss. We’re going to win this thing together, because we’re the Blue Lions of Faerghus!” said Annette cheerfully.

Mercedes added with a wise smile, “Annie’s right. Whatever will be will be, and we don’t control Felix’s behavior. The only way he’s going to learn his lesson is the hard way, sadly.”

Dimitri tried to bravely smile in return, for the benefit of his classmates. “That’s the truth...and Felix would not be Felix unless he did things the hard way.” The Prince was gratified to see Ingrid briefly smile at that, finally snapping her out of her memories. He saw a brief flicker in the distance, followed up by a thin column of smoke that started to rise in the air. “And there is the signal, my friends. Let us advance carefully in our formation, and keep our wits about us.”

*

Felix crouched low around the bole of a tree, trying to extend his senses. The white smoke on the ridge had gone up recently, seen from the branches of the tree he was currently hiding behind. He had quickly dropped to the ground after that, trying to get a better line of sight. He had to try to anticipate the movements of the Black Eagles and Golden Deer. Dimitri...that boar...would simply plod the Blue Lions into a stately, chivalric ambush. Felix intended to ambush the ambushers.

The woods were quiet and green, with fallen leaves at their seasonal minimum. Grasses, flowers, and other vegetation were sprouting all around him, muffling noise. He slowly drew his flat edged training sword soundlessly, then placed the sheath with similar care at his feet. If Ashe was going to make contact with the enemy…

An impact, followed quickly by a muffled curse.

...it would be about now. Someone else had sent out skirmishers. Felix glanced from behind the tree, seeing his fellow Blue Lion carefully sit down a good distance ahead. He had a guess as to where the bow noise had been, but wanted to know exactly where. Ready to dodge in an instant if necessary, Felix padded quietly over Ashe, as if he were checking his teammate.

Ashe grinned up at Felix from the ground, although his demeanor could not completely mask his pain as he clutched his ribs. “Well, I guess I can tell you that I’m dead. Arrow came from my left,” he whispered. Felix did not reply but decided to drop flat down at that instant. His instincts saved him as another blunt arrow sailed above him where his torso had been a moment earlier.

Rolling to his feet, Felix ran in a quickly accelerating sprint toward the archer’s position, keeping trees between him as he advanced. He could see a flash of dark skin and purple hair as the archer moved in turn through the trees. Ah. The princess from Brigid. A worthy sparring partner, and a worthy opponent. She was skilled. Taking her out would increase his team’s chances.

At the last tree before he could fully see her, Felix feinted to his left, his sword leading. An arrow from close range hissed by. Felix spun quickly to his right, bringing his sword around the trunk in a wide slash. Petra had already realized her miss and quickly blocked his sword with her bowshaft, her face snarling as she sacrificed her recurved bow to leap backwards and draw her short training sword a single feline motion.

Felix smiled at her over his blade in a draw position. “My sword is longer. You can’t win.”

The foreign Princess crouched low, her sword held wide. “Talking less, fighting more,” she bit off shortly as she attacked.

Felix parried her first slash easily, and they quickly exchanged blows. Petra was trying to bait him with repeated feints, and Felix quickly realized that he had underestimated her speed and craftiness. If he carelessly attacked and she dodged or parried correctly in anticipation, he would be overextended with his longer, heavier weapon and would become vulnerable to a winning thrust from her in return.

Felix’s smile soon vanished, his sudden need for caution drawing the combat out much longer than he had wished. For a Crestless foreigner two years his junior, his opponent was appallingly good. The ring and clash of iron from their combat in the forest would be a clarion for the rest of the classes. He concentrated on increasing the quickness of his own attacks, turning aside her short blade with increasing strength and authority as he shifted weight and stance, forcing her to concentrate solely on defense from his own long-practiced attacks and follow-throughs.

Finally, he saw his chance. A small stumble by Petra as she backtracked on the uneven forest ground behind her made him pounce with a swift overhead strike. Petra tried to desperately block, but cried out as his slightly curved blade broke past her guard and struck between her shoulder and neck. She fell to her knees, her face tight with pain. He rested his sword there on her neckline for a moment, frank admiration in his face.

“You put up a good fight. But you lose,” Felix said with a rare smile.

Petra grinned wolfishly up at him from the ground. “Sameness!” she said brightly.

Something struck him hard between the shoulderblades, and he fell gracelessly against his opponent, the pain making his world turn white.

Felix opened his eyes to see blue sky, green trees, and two smiling girls with violet hair, one dark, the other pale. He was on his back, which ached miserably. His limbs felt like they were floating in water.

“He is the handsome,” said the Brigid girl in her broken speech as she looked down on him, her left arm clutching her opposite shoulder. “Especially when his face loses the meanness.”

“Oh no--! P-petra! He’s awake!” gasped Bernadetta. She blushed and turned away quickly, her bow still in her hands. The bow that must have brought him down.

“It is not a matter, Bernie. I and Felix will stay and be good friends. You go and help Edelgard.”

Felix resolutely closed his eyes as Petra sat next to him on the grass. Bernadetta. Bernadetta had killed him in the mock battle.

Sylvain would never let him live it down.

*

The Black Eagle House edged cautiously back the Golden Deer position, taking cover behind trees as they approached. The faint musical tings of metal clashing had already come from the north. Either Petra or Bernadetta had already met some of the Blue Lions. Now Edelgard ordered everyone to seek deeper cover, whispering angrily with Ferdinand and Casper as they crouched behind a small depression. Too much time had been wasted by arguing to set traps or a defensive perimeter. Byleth silently followed at a hundred paces behind her charges.

The woods and small clearings ahead of them were silent and motionless in the noon heat. Ferdinand and Caspar thought that this was the perfect opportunity to charge ahead.

“Of course they’re hiding from us, Edelgard! That’s what I’d do if I knew I was coming!” grinned Caspar. He held two throwing hatchets tightly in his fists.

“I don’t need Caspar’s assistance, but if you want me to take out the entire Golden Deer house, I need to move quickly, without my frail future Empress getting underfoot,” smiled Ferdinand with shining confidence, standing up and striking a heroic pose with his lance. Both of them were speaking far too loudly, their voices echoing through the woods.

Edelgard carefully set her wide bladed training axe to the ground and buried her face in her white gloves. A muffled “Hubert” came forth from between her hands.

“Yes, Lady Edelgard,” said her retainer softly, standing tall behind her.

“Cover them.”

“Lady Edelgard, there are even limits to my loyalty.”

“I know, Hubert, but there are no limits to their stupidity.”

“Their condition is terminal, Lady Edelgard. I recommend euthanasia. But I will attempt the impossible.”

“Thank you, Hubert.”

“ALL RIGHT!” screamed Caspar at the top of his voice, causing his classmates and Professor to flinch. “Here comes the pain!” He leaped high to land upon the embankment above, somehow kept his footing, and charged into the woods. Ferdinand quickly followed, his spear leading. Hubert dropped low and tried to watch them discreetly from behind the tree.

Both nobles, one legitimate and the other a bastard, charged forward twenty paces before they fell abruptly onto the ground, their weapons falling out of their hands. A single hidden tripwire had ensnared them both.

A loud noise sounded from the tree above them, one of which held the tripwire. Caspar and Ferdinand were instantly covered in globs of a disgusting thick yellow substance. A moment later, a smiling Lorenz floated down from the branches.

“That could have easily been a fireball, you know. How careless of you two to expose yourselves like that…”

Hubert stood and gestured quickly at the other nobleman. Lorenz went flying head over heels through the air, landing hard as a mighty wind forced him to the ground, pinning him helplessly against the vegetation and dirt.

The dark haired Empire noble smiled as he kept his palm out, casually sauntering to stand over the helpless Lorenz, who glared upwards at him. “You were saying, My Lord Gloucester?”

Lorenz suddenly smiled from the ground, his gaze now as condescending as Hubert’s own. “That’s right. I was talking about carelessness. How rude of you to interrupt me, My Lord Vestra.”

Hubert was suddenly lifted from the ground against his will. He hissed and tried to focus his powers, his black gloved fingers moving in the patterns necessary to cancel this other mage’s attack, but then he heard a high voice cancelling his magic completely, and he found himself simply...overmatched.

Lysithea descended from the other tree, hovering in the air. “Maybe next time, you will learn to dispense with the one-liners during combat,” she said, her arms crossed before her. Her long white hair and bangs swirled in the breeze as she flicked a single small finger.

Hubert was thrown backward through the air into the still rising forms of Ferdinand and Caspar, and the three of them rolled around on the forest floor in a less than dignified heap, cursing at each other. Lorenz quietly clapped in polite admiration from his seat on the ground. 

“Attack!” yelled Edelgard, throwing a hatchet from her belt at the small white girl in black.

Manuela and Dorothea both fired off the strongest non-lethal spells that they knew, the air flickering with sparks of magic, while Edelgard threw axes and even noticed an arrow sailing in at the albino girl. All of them either missed or Lysithea brushed them aside contemptuously with her mastery of the air. Linhardt stood and tried a long and complex incantation that he unleashed with a surprisingly loud shout and a clap of his hands. The air suddenly roared as leaves, sticks and dirt swirled around Lysithea, seeking to batter her. All that it accomplished was that she unfolded her arms and raised them, bringing them down quickly. The winds in the vicinity immediately ceased, dropping Lysithea to the ground where she landed lightly. She arose from her kneeling position with her eyes promising murder. Another blunt arrow tried to sail into her at that moment, and she halted its flight without looking at it with a single upraised hand. As it trembled mere feet away from her, she clenched her small fist and the arrow shaft broke in twain, falling to the ground.

Linhardt was wiping sweat from his brow, backing away. “Ah, Lady Edelgard, this is probably a good time for a tactical withdrawal.” 

“She’s fifteen!” hissed the Imperial Princess, her face aflame as her thoughts raced. How could this child be so powerful? Could it be…?

Linhardt was already running in surprisingly fast flight through the woods, with the other women wordlessly following him in agreement. Edelgard picked up her unsharpened battleaxe and ran away with them from that disgustingly powerful teen magician. Fortunately for them, black arrows continued to sail at Lysithea, forcing the young mage to protect herself rather than pursue them.

The three women and man halted a short distance away, doing their best to conceal themselves in high grass or behind trees. Dorothea was panting but smiling as she leaned against a tree trunk. “So that’s...what a noble with a Crest can do…”

“She’s more than that,” said Professor Manuela in an angry tone, covering herself with her robes. “She’s inhuman. Hubert should have been able to cancel her spell. I know what that boy can do. Our strongest magician was outmatched…”

“Excuse me, Professor Manuela, but I’m still here,” murmured Linhardt, his hands on his knees as he panted.

Edelgard was still burning with humiliation, but she was listening as she tried to keep a watch while her remaining mages recovered. Petra covering their retreat had been an amazingly adept tactical feat. The Adrestian Princess promised herself that she would pay more personal attention to their guest from Brigid in the future. Reviewing the brief battle in her mind, she turned to Linhardt. “You tried a lethal spell, did you not? To test her?”

“Ah, you saw that. Yes, I did. She ignored it almost completely, although it finally did make her put some effort into it. But she’s just a minor Crest of Charon…” Linhardt started thinking out loud, soon lost in thought as he panted on the ground.

Dorothea straightened up, her beautiful face suddenly serious. “I smell smoke,” she announced.

Manuela sighed. “Oh darling, I know. These woods simply reek of it…”

“No, it’s not the corpse smoke, Manuela,” said Dorothea. “This is wood smoke. A new fire…” she stood and tried to scan the woods cautiously.

All four of them arose. Now that she was higher in the air, Edelgard could smell the woodsmoke as well. Green wood was burning somewhere. Soon they heard faint shouting, and then the clash of weapons.

Edelgard hefted her battleaxe to her shoulder. “Excellent. There is still an opportunity for us to claim victory, my friends. The Golden Deer and Blue Lions are fighting.”

*

They had come across the cheerful but silent Ashe, who pointed wordlessly to Felix and Petra in the distance, the former still on his back with the young foreign girl kneeling beside him. Ingrid and Sylvain both smirked and shared a gleeful look, delighted with Felix getting some well-deserved comeuppance. The rest of the Blue Lions understood the need for caution, and they began to fan apart and seek cover the closer they came to the Golden Deer position. Dimitri and his classmates soon spotted low, taut ropes strung between trees and hidden in vegetation, which they evaded using eye contact and hand signals. They also soon heard distant sounds and indistinct raised voices, but those quickly faded. 

Their first intimation of trouble was an arrow cracking against Dedue’s upraised shield. The imposing man instantly knelt, hiding his large frame behind his tower shield, holding it as firmly as a castle wall against any attack. Dimitri and the rest of the class laid down low or hid behind tree trunks large enough to break the archers’ sightline as a fusillade of arrows came at them.

Dedue held his position as arrows banged uselessly against his thick shield, although soon some were whistling past his ear as the archers moved and changed positions. “Your Highness, I can stand here. Advance with the rest,” he called out.

“Not yet,” responded Dimitri to his loyal companion. He attempted to claim Professor Hanneman’s attention, who was hidden some behind large bushes with Annette. _Can you respond_ , Dimitri tried to motion to the Professor with his hands. He saw the grey mane shake its head, but Annette had seen Dimitri’s sotto voice request as well and was tugging on the Professor’s robe and whispering. Soon the older man was smiling and he nodded sharply to Dimitri, his hands drawing themselves out.

So. Annette had a plan, and Hanneman had agreed, but they needed time. It was time for one of their drills they had practiced privately. “Blue Lions!” Dimitri roared at the top of his voice. An answering yell from his classmates sounded back. “At my signal...we charge!” He paused for a moment, then yelled, “For Faerghus!” He quickly feinted out from his cover, then just as quickly returned, nodding in satisfaction as he saw Ingrid, Sylvain, and Dedue do the same. Mercedes held her cover behind them, attempting to sporadically return arrows against their unseen opponents.

As expected, arrows sailed into and nearby their positions, thudding uselessly against the ground and trees, as well as Dedue’s shield, but none did harm. The archers were distracted and now Annette and Hanneman were standing, working some mysterious magic. Both of them put their hands together and shouted.

Twin black fireballs erupted from their hands, racing forward through the woods. Dimitri’s eyes widened at the potentially deadly assault, but he soon realized the dark, smoking fireballs were aimed at the ground and tree trunks ahead of their position, in the direction of the arrows. The woods ahead of them erupted into dust and smoke, with minimal flame, and the Prince smiled as he heard hacking coughs from the tree boughs inside the obscured air.

Dimitri gave the true call to advance. “Forward!” With a shout, the Blue Lion House charged into the obscured field.

The brief flames and voluminous smoke had caught the Golden Deer archers off guard. They stumbled and dropped from the trees, coughing desperately to clear their lungs and to evade the blinding air.

A small blonde man with glasses stumbled from a tree, gasping for clean air, his bow and quiver forgotten as he dropped them behind him. He stumbled blindly, rubbing at his eyes and coughing.

Suddenly the lenses on his face were plucked away by a hand. “NO! Where are they...my glasses?” said Ignatz in a panic.

Ignatz whirled around to see a blurry red haired monster standing over him with an upraised lance, with his glasses on its face. “Oh man! How do you see in these things!” The blunted lance swung easily in one hand, clouting Ignatz across the ear. “Bop. You’re dead.”

“So...are you,” coughed a voice behind him.

Sylvain quickly twisted around himself, blocking the intended blow with the shaft of his lance as he smirkingly swept the glasses off his face. Ignatz saw the glint of reflected sunlight through the melee and tackled the ground to secure his most prized possession, ignoring the battle above him. Leonie and Sylvain faced off, both of them wielding lances of equal length.

Leonie rapped a knuckle with her shaft and was delighted to see Sylvain become angry in response. Quick clacks filled the wood the two students used their weapons as quarterstaves, and soon both of their hands and fingers were battered and bleeding, despite their thick gloves. The commoner woman and nobleman glared at each other through the smoke as their arms soon trembled with the effort of trying to grip their weapons. Ignatz stared up at them in mute fascination throughout their duel.

“My my. You’re actually pretty when you’re angry. Got any plans tonight?” smiled Sylvain wickedly.

“Too bad you’re not pretty when you’re stupid. Guess that means you’ll never be,” sneered Leonie. She attacked.

Sylvain’s smile widened as he quickly reversed his grip on his lance and swung it against his body, bringing the blunt end upwards with all of its momentum to knock out this tomboy.

He failed to notice Leonie doing the exact same thing, on the opposite side.

Two sharp hollow thuds. Two lances fell into the grass. Leonie staggered into Sylvain’s arms as he fell backwards, although both were already senseless.

Ignatz stared at the image of his two unconscious classmates tousled together on the ground, enchanted. _The Lioness Sleeping In The Forest._ He could hardly wait for the opportunity to sketch this idea down. He gazed up at the soot obscured sky. “Thank you,” he whispered in reverence.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that no Dark Magic is revealed yet. This is just the mock battle. I'm assuming everyone can at least do some wind manipulation, based on the warlock victory animation.
> 
> The rule of thumb I'm going to use with my mages: they can and will get exhausted, but not here, and they can focus on either on defense or offense but not both.
> 
> Cas/Lin is too cute and funny for words, but I did my best. I'm doing a slight experiment with Caspar, making him an unacknowledged child (which are ALL over Fodlan, and of which Dorothea is one) but at least his noble father took him into his household and will see to his training, despite him not having a Crest. After that, though, Caspar has always been convinced he has to do everything on his own canon wise, so I figured why not. Maybe there are some nobles who are actually half-way decent to their Crestless children. It's AU, so it's possible!


	14. The World Entire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoever destroys a soul of Israel, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world.  
> And whoever saves a life of Israel, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.
> 
> \--Yerushami Talmud 4:9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fun chapter.

Ch 14

The World Entire

Dimitri grinned as he rushed through the smoke, delighted by the familiar sensation of combat. A shred of order, a core of decency inside his brain, tried to remind him not to use his full strength. But it would feel so good to batter his foes to the ground, watching them topple down like ninepins. He gripped his lance tightly in his hands, the feel of it as familiar as a brother.

A coughing laugh sounded ahead of him. “Wow...and they call...me a schemer. You could teach me lessons, Dimitri!”

Claude. The Leicester Duke was doubtlessly trying to bait him forward, hoping for a clear shot. Well, he would move unpredictably, to his left. Dimitri strode confidently through the smoke filled wood, even though visibility was limited. He breathed deeply and steadily, refusing to cough, even though his lungs were burning from the foul air. He would not give away his position so easily.

A swirl of a breeze revealed a dim shadow by a tree, lightly coughing in the smoke. Dimitri ran forward to leap and swing his lance at the figure, a wild swing that the Golden Deer archer would see and dodge, then he would shift and follow through with a punch from the shaft to incapacitate…

...except that the archer did not dodge.

Dimitri felt a flash of incandescent terror. He was a murderer, a killer. Nothing more than a destructive monster who broke everything and everyone around itself. But he would not kill his classmates, his friends, like a careless beast. He could not. Dimitri tried to desperately check his swing, all of his tendons and sinews quivering in protest to halt the momentum of his lance.

Despite his efforts, the lance struck something hard. The Prince of Faerghus froze.

The smoke cleared enough for Dimitri to see his lance had clipped the tree above the figure. He had torn the thick bark off, leaving a deep gouge into the wide tree trunk.

Lady Marianne von Edmund stood listlessly before him, her bow and quiver hanging lightly in her fingers.

“You missed,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She did not look at him.

Dimitri was still shivering from the burst of adrenaline. His armor and uniform were now soaked with sweat from heat and stress. “Lady Marianne--! Why...you...I…I could have killed you! Are you no longer fighting?”

“Maybe you should have killed me,” she said hopelessly as she looked up at him with red rimmed eyes.

“I…” Dimitri was at a loss for words. It was too much for him to sort through, even as his ears picked up the sounds of combat and raised voices all around him. Glenn, Patricia, and Lambert were suddenly around him, sneering and yelling at him as he refused to function, could not function in the midst of combat, even as his allies fell around him. A helpless child. A weak prince.

But he recognized the pain in Marianne’s eyes. He knew the despair in her voice. And he remembered her words, the same words of a dark skinned boy of his age, with cropped white hair, standing above the bodies of his parents and sister. People his soldiers had killed. Dedue had forgotten those words, but not Dimitri.

He was not a monster. He was not. His chaotic thoughts clung to it like a mantra.

He could envision only one course of action, and Dimitri chose it without hesitation. “Lady Marianne. You are in distress. Please...drop your weapons, and come with me.” He held out his hand.

“Ok,” she whispered, dropping her bow and quiver. She obediently took Dimitri’s hand, her face downcast.

Her passivity was by far the most alarming trait. Dimitri firmly led her north, away from the combat and the smoke and the fire, away back into the green woods. He saw a figure in the foggy haze and steered Marianne towards it.

He had hoped to find Shamir and Flayn, but instead found Mercedes fumbling with her bow and arrows, the wide blunted arrowheads still giving her difficulty as she attempted to draw. “Oh, Prince Dimitri?” she gasped. She gasped again to see Dimitri drag Marianne forward by the hand, the girl still not looking at either of them. “Marie? What’s this about?”

Prince Dimitri waited for Mariannne to respond, but when it was clear she could not,he slowly formed his own words. “Lady Marianne...is fatigued by the combat. She needs the care of a healer now. Mercedes, you have my permission to withdraw from the fighting and assist her. Please.”

“Of course, Prince Dimitri. I will be happy to do so,” said the older girl, dropping her bowshaft immediately and untying her sweater to lay it about Marianne’s shoulders. The girl seemed bewildered by the attention she now received as Mercedes kindly fussed over her.

Dimitri tried to drop Marianne’s hand, intending to turn away, but suddenly her fingers clenched his own with a strong grip. He turned to see Lady Marianne staring directly at him.

“Prince Dimitri...why?” she whispered.

He attempted to squeeze her fingers gently in return, but was surprised to find that she could match his grip, seemingly by instinct. She was stronger than her frail appearance suggested. He returned her frank gaze with one of his own.

“Because, Lady Marianne, you are not alone. Seeing you so...I could do nothing else.”

Something passed between them. He was not sure what. But he thought he saw in her eyes a glimmer of understanding.

“Ok,” she said, nodding. She released his hand. “I’ll stay here, then.”

Mercedes smiled at Dimitri, a hand on Marianne’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about us, Prince Dimitri. I’ll take good care of her. The Knights will understand.”

“Thank you, Mercedes. Lady Marianne. We will speak later.” He nodded to them both and ran back to the battle.

*

“Oh, yuck! More smoke--! I’m going to have to buy a whole new outfit…”

“Hilda, you can shut up now,” growled Professor Jeralt. He was gazing at the smoke and dust billowing from the trees, his face frowning. None of the Golden Deer archers were falling back, and they soon heard combat noises inside the haze.

Hilda stuck her tongue out at her new Professor’s back, but then stopped and smacked her lips as more ash entered her mouth. Bleh. That was stupid of her. Raphael was smiling and winking at her with encouragement on his craggy face. He was a nice boy, thought Hilda. He had a little sister, and he understood that women were delicate, frail creatures, who deserve to be protected. Captain Jeralt was just mean, but Claude and the boys seemed taken with him. And Leonie, but she was basically a boy anyway. Hilda could not understand why everyone at Garreg Mach made such a big deal about this scary man.

Jeralt spoke without looking at his students. “Alright, we’re going to split up and enter it. I’ll take point, and both of you follow behind me, on my left and right.” He hefted a heavy training pole axe and walked forward with quick strides.

“Yessir, Captain,” grinned Raphael, slamming his training gloves together before following on the Professor’s left.

Hilda gave a groaning sigh and lifted her massive war axe to her shoulder. “Fine,” she muttered, tossing her pink pigtails. She was going to have to wash her hair for a week. She had to actually run and sweat to catch up with them, and then the smoke started getting into her eyes. It made it dreadfully hard to see anything.

Iron rang against iron suddenly from her left. Well, maybe big mean scary men were useful in one way. They were good at fighting at other big mean scary men. Jeralt and Dedue were locked in combat, with Jeralt shouting at the silent Duscar native.

Hilda decided her Professor could take care of himself, because if he couldn’t then he wasn’t much of a Professor, was he? She looked around the smokey woods for any other people not belonging to her House, and saw a short figure several yards to her right pointing at her and gesturing.

Well, that was just rude. Hilda ran forward with her axe ready to swing. This person must be a mage, because something sticky and nasty tried to shoot out at her as they pointed. She was not touching THAT stuff. Hilda spun aside from the filthy substance, then continued running forward to swing at the figure with the butt of her training axe. The small person shrieked in pain as the impact spun her to the ground.

“Ow! Ow ow ow ouch owie ow with extra ouch sauce!” yelled Annette, clutching her left arm on the grass, rolling into a ball.

“Sorry, Annie!” Hilda sang brightly, her axe back on her shoulder, before turning around to look for any more opponents. She would get someone to bake some cookies for Annette later…

A premonition of danger made her raise her axe before her face. Something clanged off the front of the wide blade, causing the back end to clout Hilda in the forehead. It dropped to the ground at her boots. An arrow. A black arrow.

Hilda was beginning to become irritated. She felt a bump on her head beginning to grow. Someone was out there, trying to ruin her looks.

“You’re making...me...work!” she shouted indignantly to the forest. A faint squeal was heard through the haze, then nothing. The pink haired short noblewoman stalked forward through the woods and smoke, axehead leading, too angry to even cough.

More voices and sounds of combat were rising around her, but Hilda ignored them. Whoever that Black Eagle sniper was, they were going to regret that.

Suddenly she heard chanting...between coughing...somewhere nearby. Someone was trying to cast a spell at her and ruin her armor--her hair!--with mage goo. Again! This day was just full of inconveniences. Hilda veered to the sound, seeing someone in robes and shoulder length hair before her, and swung her axe again.

The mage managed to duck under her swing but had to interrupt his own spell, and Hilda only grew more frustrated at seeing her opponent. Linhardt, the sleepy boy who hid in the library, who was too lazy to do anything for Hilda. Hilda hated lazy boys.

Linhardt tried to run out of range, but Hilda was having none of that. She caught up with him and swung her axe again, this time connecting, battering the boy to his knees.

The green haired nobleman grimaced in pain on the ground, clinically examining himself. “Ow. My favorite arm,” he said, probing his right shoulder gingerly. 

Hilda raised her axe threateningly. “Should I have hit the other one?”

“No. Well. Yes. Probably,” explained Linhardt between winces, holding his swelling limb. “It’s just that this is the arm that I use at night for…”

“Ew! No! You really are a disgusting weirdo, aren’t you?” exclaimed Hilda in revulsion.

“...fishing. I was going to say fishing, before you rudely interrupted me. I don’t know what _you_ were thinking about. I guess it’s something only disgusting weirdos think up. And also, you should probably look out behind you,” said Linhardt offhandedly.

Hilda almost didn’t believe him, but something about the way he said that made her spin around with her weapon on guard. Another axe clashed into her own, driven by an enraged Edelgard, but Hilda managed to strain enough to shove the other girl’s weapon aside. “Linhardt, I’m going to kill you,” the Princess growled shortly as she attacked again.

“Figuratively, I hope…”

Neither Edelgard or Hilda gave Linhardt another thought as they furiously sparred. They were of a size and strength, although Edelgard was a touch faster. But my axe is bigger, Hilda thought viciously, feeling her arms and shoulders jolt with every block and parry. She wasn’t going to let this spoiled little Imperial Princess win.

A few more blows and swings were exchanged, with both women falling into a rhythm, the fight becoming a question of who would tire first and make a mistake. Edelgard began to dodge more, ducking or side-stepping Hilda’s swings, each one capable of serious injury despite the blunted edge of the large blade. Hilda grunted with effort, trying to match Edelgard’s speed as she swung her axe again in a wide, crossing arc--

\--that caused it to become embedded in a tree trunk. Hilda’s eyes widened in shock, and she struggled for an instant to free her dull training weapon. In that instant the the Imperial Princess rose from her low crouch below the axehead, yanked one of Hilda’s long pigtail braids to the side, and rapped Hilda smartly on the head with the flat of her axe.

Hilda released her axe handle to clutch her now-thoroughly aching head. “Ow! Was that really necessary?”

“Yes,” snapped Edelgard shortly. “Now sit down or I’ll do it again.” Hilda looked belligerently at the white haired Princess, and Edelgard coolly raised her weapon again.

The Lady Goneril did as the Princess demanded, but glared at her red cape as she stiffly walked back to Lindhart. She rubbed the second, larger sore knot rising on her head beneath her scalp.

She despised investing any more training hours than minimally necessary at the Officer’s Academy. But she decided that she just might make an exception for Edelgard, because beating that smug little bitch would be worth it in the end.

*

“Linhardt.”

“Ah, hello, Edelgard. Please forgive me if I do not give you my full and complete attention. I’m in a bit of pain right now.”

“My sympathies. I am merely checking to make sure you are still on my side.”

“Oh. That. I was just trying to trick Hilda by stating the obvious. So many nobles tend to ignore it, you know. I thought she would scoff and give you the time to land a surprise attack.”

“Linhardt.”

“Or I could say I had complete and utter faith in my future Empress…”

“Linhardt.” 

“Ok, fine. Maybe I just wanted to witness an actual battle between two noblewomen with Crests. I tried to take notes but the fingers of my writing hand are a little numb at the moment.”

“Very well. Thank you for being honest with me, Lindhart. But if you do that again, I will send Hubert to deal with you.”

“That sounds interesting on a number of levels, Edelgard. The possibility of noble intrigue being one, your blatant display of ruthlessness towards me being the second, and the third is my imagination running wild about how Hubert might ‘deal’ with me…”

“Linhardt.”

“Oh all right, I agree to your demand. I will never let my desire for Crest research endanger you again, Lady Edelgard. Except for...maybe one last time.”

“What are you babbling about now? Why one last time?”

“Well, because Prince Dimitri is standing behind you.”

**

Manuela stumbled forward through the vegetation and dirt and soot, her robes quickly becoming stained. At some point she had decided to draw her sword, although she didn’t remember doing that. But then again, she didn’t remember doing a lot of things these days.

This battle was just going wrong. Just like her life, she thought tiredly, but quickly grew irritated at the thought. Of course she was a mess of a woman, but that’s because she didn’t have anyone to care about her! If she had a strong, dependable man in her life, of course she would put effort into...cleaning herself up. Appearances were everything, after all. She would gladly trade drinking and...other things...just for someone she could settle down with and enjoy evenings. She still had her looks, and her voice was only getting better with maturity. She enjoyed teaching and spending time with the students and the Knights. So why was everything always going _wrong_ around her?

Something whistled past her ear, and shouts and clangs mixed with some cries of pain intruded on her, as well as that awful smoke. Oh, that’s right. The mock battle. At least that interesting Captain Jeralt was here now, along with many other men who didn’t know about the scandalous rumors that had all those oh-so-pious monks and nuns and Knights gossiping about her. Maybe she could find him, and pin him helplessly to the ground with her magic. Then...who knows? Manuela chuckled richy at the pleasing image.

She did end up finding a man in the woods, but he was already on the ground, absently rubbing a shoulder. Hanneman. Of course the poor old man had already been taken out. Manuela looked around the forest, but her senses told her the fighting must be drifting away from this location. After all, who would want to spend time with _Hanneman?_ Nothing but blah blah blah about Crest this and Crest that.

Well, she was a physician. She should check on the poor thing, if only to gloat for a little bit. Manuela stood and sauntered over to her colleague, her sword on her shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Hanneman? Playing with the youngsters too exhausting? I could heal you, if you like, and make you feel more...rejuvenated.”

Hanneman favored her with a sour squint behind his monocle from the ground. “Manuela. I would tell you that you’re acting very foolishly, but you’ve ignored me every time in the past. Why should I bother again?”

Manuela was about to respond with some brilliant rejoinder, but at that moment something whistled into her and punched her in the chest in a most delicate spot. She cried out with a note that would put many divas to shame and limply fell to the ground, dropping her sword and clutching herself.

A distant voice called out. “Oh! Uh, sorry, Professor Manuela! That looks like it hurts. Um...I hope you’re ok! We all do! Uh...really! Please forgive me...” The shouting faded away.

The songstress gasped on the forest ground, her mind and body still throbbing with deep aches, nearly oblivious to the world. Slowly, then more quickly, her agony eased and she gasped as she was able to open her eyes again.

Hanneman was leaning over her, his mouth moving quietly behind his bushy moustache as he held hands above her. He leaned back suddenly when he saw her eyes on him. “Oh. I’m sorry, Manuela. I was hoping to ease your discomfort. I am not skilled in the medicinal arts, but I do know some basic techniques…”

“No...that does feel better, Hanneman. Ugh. This is what I get for wearing my opera robes and not my armor, I guess…” Slowly Manuela sat up, examining herself. She would have to heal herself again, later, but Hanneman’s work for now was...adequate.

She realized suddenly that the arrow had caused her to be...uncovered. Oh my. She quickly drew her robes about herself, trying to adjust herself discreetly. Fortunately, Hanneman was polite enough to stare at the sky while she did so.

As she did so, Manuela dimly grew aware that she did have people in her life that cared about her. That would even...heal her. To be considerate of her feelings.

They sat together for some time, before Manuela said slowly, “Professor Hanneman...thank you.”

Hanneman said quickly, shortly, “Think nothing of it, Professor Manuela.”

Manuela looked to the ground. “Au contraire, Hanneman. I believe I will think about it...a great deal.”

*

Raphael dodged to the left, looking for anyone to punch...lightly, he reminded himself...with his leather gloves. This smoke and stuff in the air was making it hard to breath, causing him to sneeze loudly and his eyes to water. But a Knight always had to be prepared for anything, didn’t they?

He heard sounds ahead of him, but by the time he got there--he had tripped over a log, breaking it--he saw only good old Ignatz sitting besides Leonie lying on top of Sylvain. Raphael thought that kind of behavior was positively indecent in the middle of battle, but who was he to judge? Ignatz promised to tell him what happened later.

He heard the new Professor shouting behind him, still fighting that Blue Lion. Well, maybe he could help him out. Two against one might not be fair, but then again, war wasn’t fair, was it? All you had to do was win. And the new professor was a real professional, a real Knight! He knew all the ins and outs of the business. If he impressed the Captain, maybe he could get Knighted just like the old man’s daughter. That had been something special. Raphael ran all the way back through the woods as fast as he could, remembering to step over the logs this time.

He had to admit, that Blue Lion, Deduey, was putting up a hell of a fight against the Professor. Raphael frankly admired the expert way the other man hefted his shield and swung his axe, and the way he ignored the Professor’s taunts and swings. Deduey was basically a Knight already, but all devoted to Dimitri and the Kingdom. He was also a dang good cook. Too bad for him.

Raphael tried to consider the best way to ambush the Blue Lion. He could just run forward and punch the man in the back of the head, but that seemed un-Knightly for some reason. He could alternatively distract Deduey by coming behind him anyways, but he really wanted to do something for the Captain that would show off his muscles. Plus, Raphael was anxious to show the Professor he could be sneaky too. The Professor approved of Claude’s ideas for stuff like sneaky tricks and traps and trying to “think like the enemy.” Things like that just made his head hurt, because Raphael thought it was silly to think like someone else when you were just yourself, but he had to try.

Planting his large boots as carefully as he could, he snuck up behind Deduey. Captain Jeralt saw him and adjusted his stance and swings accordingly, but gave no other acknowledgement of his student’s presence. His plan was working! Captain Jeralt did an overhead chop with his long axe, causing Deduey to shift backwards rather than risk catching that on his shield…

...and at that moment, several other things happened.

First, Raphael swung his arms up into the Blue Lion’s armpits. He flexed and tried to hold, straining his grip against the equally large Deduey trying to break free. He had hoped the Captain would have intervened at this point, but the blonde haired girl, the one that reminded him of his sister, chose that moment to attack the Captain. He was alone against Deduey.

The second was the cute little magician girl, Lysithia, floating back to her House just as it was under attack. The brown haired opera girl had also stepped from behind a tree and was yelling at her, making her distracted.

The third was that arrows started whizzing back and forth. A lot of them. That distracted everybody.

Except for Deduey.

The other man took advantage of Raphael’s briefly relaxed grip, and bent down low. Raphael was fleetingly disoriented by feeling the unfamiliar sensation of his feet leaving the ground as Deduey flexed forward, holding Raphael’s arms tightly against his body with his arms. Raphael was startled, but not for long, as Deduey shifted his left arm to raise the top of his tower shield to meet Raphael’s face.

White lights exploded between his eyes and nose as the rim of the shield connected.

Raphael released his hold and staggered backwards, clutching his face and hacking as blood filled his mouth and sinuses. But he felt only admiration for the big Blue Lion as he stumbled to his knees on the forest floor, unable to do much of anything other than spit blood.

“You’re strong,” said a deep voice above him.

Raphael looked up through his watering eyes and gave a bloody smile up at the Blue Lion. “Not strong enough, I guess. But maybe you can teach me your moves?”

“I will consider it,” smirked Deduey. He turned back to the combat.

That was real Knightly behavior. Acknowledging your foe, accepting him...or her...as worthy. As an equal. Even if you beat them, fair and square .

Yep, that was what Knighthood was all about.

*

Jeralt was feeling his years amidst all of these kids. That Duscar boy especially. He reminded Jeralt of himself at that age. Strong, serious, devoted, taciturn. Not willing to give an inch, not intimidated by anything. That kid was going to go far.

This other kid Ingrid was good too, if what Claude had told him was true. Pretty noble girl. Wanted to be a Knight, more than anything.

Jeralt longed for a chance to tell her all of it was bullshit. Unfortunately, combat was not the place for waxing philosophical.

He dodged or deflected most of the girl’s initial thrusts and swings with her lance, but then heard a blow behind him and Raphael loudly coughing. That was damned inconvenient, but he was encouraged to see Lysithea float by. He tried to move aside to keep both Blue Lion students in his field of vision, but an arrow sped past him at Ingrid at that moment, causing both opponents to hesitate.

The Golden Deer Professor had to think to remember the color of that fletching. “Claude!” he yelled to the woods. “You’re going to hit me!”

“No I won’t,” a shout came back, ringing with confidence.

He dodged a quick renewed thrust from Ingrid, but his battle intuition made him leap to the side abruptly, saving him from a swing from Dedue’s axe. He stumbled backwards without grace through the smoke and vegetation, but the Blue Lion students were uninterested in pursuing.

“I don’t need your help, you black bastard!” spat Ingrid with venom towards her teammate.

Dedue regarded her without changing expression for a long moment. The man could give Byleth a run for her money. “Very well,” he said, stepping away and lowering his axe and shield.

Lysithea called out across the clearing from where she faced Dorothea. “Professor, let me handle these cretinous children. Especially that Ingrid, who apparently hates her own classmate. Most of us are down. Edelgard and Dimitri are fighting about a hundred paces behind you.”

“My Prince!” yelled Dedue, instantly focused, his face showing expression at last. He feinted his axe briefly to Jeralt, but it was clear his intention was to move past him. Jeralt feinted a parry in return, then swung his pole axe in a long arc with his hands gripping the bottom of the shaft, jumping forward slightly to get the precise angle. He struck the Duscar boy directly in the back with the flat edge as he tried to run past him, and the kid grunted softly before turning.

The former Knight hit the ground with his armoured shoulder protesting, leafy dust and ash filling his nostrils, and it left him totally open to an attack from Ingrid. But Lysithia had chosen her taunts well, because Ingrid was advancing on her instead of him. Jeralt slowly rose up from the ground to regard the still-standing Dedue, who was glaring at him with his weapon and shield at the ready.

Jeralt smirked at the young man as he got up. “Admit it, kid, if my blade held an edge, your spine would be severed. You’re a good fighter and a completely worthy person. You held your ground. But such obvious devotion makes you...predictable.”

“You do not know my limits,” said Dedue sternly, and for a moment Jeralt wondered briefly if such an excellent cadet would deny himself honor and get himself expelled. But then the large Duscar boy released his axe and shield and eased himself to the ground, all the while staring at him. “But also...your words hold truth. I let my concern for my Prince endanger him. That is what defeated me.” 

“Strong _and_ smart,” complemented Jeralt warmly with a wink to the stoic kid. He glanced behind him, but Lysithea seemed to have things well in hand against Ingrid and Dorothea. Raphael looked like a mess where he sat with blood running down his chin and uniform, but he gave a reassuring wave to his Professor as he held his nose.

It was time to take out the big fish. “Claude!” he yelled again, then coughed as more soot entered his lungs. Damned smoke, but it was a good tactic against his students, as full of archers as they were. He had underestimated Hanneman. The fussy nobleman apparently knew a trick or two.

A sing-song voice came back to him through the woods. “Yes, teacher?”

Jeralt scowled at Claude’s antics. “Follow me!” he bellowed.

The voice changed its notes even higher. “Yes, teacher!”

Jeralt strode past Dedue, his weapon at the ready before him. Claude was also really good. But Jeralt promised himself to have a long talk with him about battlefield discipline.

*

Dorothea was used to the spotlight. But these Crest-flaunting noblewomen were trying to steal it, treating her like a mere stagehand.

She had tried to draw Lysithea to her position, hoping her preparations were enough, but only got a sneering declaration of “You’re not a threat to me.” before the ramrod little girl floated away from her. Dorothea wanted to gently explain to the child that if she did not want to be treated like a brat, she needed to stop acting like one.

Even that handsome noblewoman, Ingrid, glared at Dorothea and her sword dismissively when she had tried to taunt her towards her. And promptly turned her back on her, to attack the scarred new Professor.

Maybe she really didn’t belong here.

She could always go back to the opera company in Enbarr, of course. But that meant going back to her...patrons. Who would expect things from her. Who would use her until her voice and beauty faded, then seek fresher meat.

It was a familiar feeling. She had been treated this way her entire life. After being overlooked or used constantly, it eventually stops hurting.

After all, you can’t be hurt when there’s nothing left inside of you to hurt.

It was the source of all her talent, really. She could suffer any degradation, throw herself completely into a role, put up with almost anyone or anything.

Except for maybe...rejection. Yes, that was intolerable.

But perhaps this would work out in her favor after all. Lysithea and Ingrid were fighting each other instead of her. Captain Jeralt had called Claude away, so she no longer had to dodge arrows. That was thoughtful. Now Dorothea just needed to be patient and wait for one of them to win, then come join her on her carefully prepared stage. So, she would settle for being the audience first. Dorothea decided she didn’t mind because this little drama before her was shaping up nicely.

Lysithea was glaring down at Ingrid, hovering three feet above the air several yards away from the blonde cadet. The smoke swirled around her, refusing to touch her through the bubble of clean air she had made for herself, and she disdainfully said, “Why even bother trying? You should just go ahead and sit down. I don’t want to hurt you by accident.”

“You really don’t know me very well if you think I’m just going to lay down and give up,” snapped Ingrid, her grass-green eyes glaring back fiercely. She was pacing in a battle stance around the Golden Deer student, her lance held firm and ready before her.

“You’re right, I don’t, and I’m quickly losing interest. Just remember I warned you,” declared Lysithea as she held out an upraised palm and muttered an incantation.

The atmosphere in front of the short girl shimmered, then distorted, then hardened into a blade. A dull blade, Dorothea quickly hoped, watching as Lysithea flicked a finger in Ingrid’s direction. Dorothea winced in sympathy as the shimmering force of air quickly flew straight at a charging Ingrid…

...and Ingrid ran through it without missing a step, ignoring the concussive impact behind her.

Lysithea’s pink eyes went wide in shock, and she had no time to recover as Ingrid leaped up to swing her lance, knocking the small mage out of the air to hit the ground hard with a full swing of her lance. Lysithea rolled once on the forest floor after landing and did not move.

“Some people are resistant to magic, you know,” sniffed Ingrid at her fallen opponent. Seeing Lysithea lying motionless on the ground, Ingrid sighed as she bent down to check the fallen girl, trying to make her more comfortable. This gave Dorothea time to discreetly adjust her sketch on the ground, her mind concentrating very hard to increase its power as she motioned a sparking hand above it. The extra effort drained her to her limits, but she managed to finish in time, hiding a discreet wobble, to stand again before Ingrid turned back to face her.

“Well, now that you’ve finished beating up a child, ready to play with the big girls?” Dorothea said with a flippant wink. Her lungs burned and her muscles ached from the effort of controlling her breathing. She had no magic, no energy to fight. All she had were words.

“You’re no match for me. I’m better at sparring than you, and there’s no magic you can do to stop me. It wouldn’t be fair,” said Ingrid, a frown on her elegant face.

“Lysithea thought it wasn’t fair, too,” reminded Dorothea. She put effort into a saucy smile. “If you’re giving me special consideration on the battlefield, darling, that’s not going to help the rumours about you.”

Ingrid was about to turn and look for Dimitri, but turned back to Dorothea, bringing her lance up, her face now set in unattractive hard lines. “What are you talking about? What rumours?”

Dorothea laughed gaily, drawing on all the spiteful scorn she could muster as an actress. “Oh, you mean you haven’t heard? The ones about you putting off your suitors. Constantly. You say you want to be a Knight, but I think you just want to bed all the girls at Garreg Mach like a bitch in heat.”

Dorothea blessed and cursed her acting skills as Ingrid snarled and sprinted to her. She had gotten the Blue Lion to play her part, all right. Perhaps a little too well. She held her smile as she held out her sword above her, as if ready to attack. 

The instant Ingrid got within a pace of Dorothea to swing her lance, she screamed loudly as sparkling arcs of galvanic energy raced across her body, coming from the rune on the ground Dorothea had drawn before herself. The songstress breathed heavily then, dropping her poise of confidence, showing her exhaustion as she thought she had won. But Ingrid did not fall, even as her muscles jerked involuntarily and spittle ran down her chin. Impossibly, she raised her lance again to thrust it forward while falling to the ground. Dorothea shrieked herself as the blunted tip of the weapon slammed into her abdomen, punching the breath from her lungs and doubling her over, her sword lost from her hand. Dorothea helplessly fell to her hands and knees and vomited into the grass.

Both women gasped and panted on the peaty ground, writhing in pain. Ingrid still moaned and twitched in spasms, while Dorothea was focusing very hard on finding air to breathe, occasionally spitting to the ground to clear her mouth. She was vaguely aware of some rushing feet nearby padding quickly over to check on the two of them. The new Knight, Lady Beatrix, bent over and checked Ingrid, while Dorothea was helped to sit up by a kneeling and upset Thunder Catherine.

“That was risky, Dorothea. I don’t know whether I should congratulate you or expel you,” said the blonde Knight seriously.

Trips quickly assessed Ingrid. “She’ll be ok, although she’s going to be sore. I can help with that, I think. Both of them might want some water.” Trips nodded to Catherine and Dorothea. “I think Dorothea did great. Who taught you runes, kid?”

Dorothea gave a shaky smile as she swallowed a mouthful from Catherine’s waterskin. “Professor Manuela. She taught me everything I know. But is Ingrid really going to be ok?”

Beatrix gave a confident smile. “As soon as I heal her a bit. She’ll be up in no time.”

“Good,” sighed Dorothea, finally leaning back against Catherine’s arm, her torso still aching, her breathing still difficult. But she smiled as she said, “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my sweet Ingrid.”

*

Dimitri spun his lance to block any follow throughs as he retreated a step, but saw that Edelgard was uninterested in pursuing. She was too busy catching her own breath, as was he.

Their training weapons were chipped to ruins. Both of them had broken fingers, clipped wounds to the head, shoulders, torso, the occasional leg. Neither of them were willing to admit defeat, this small break just a brief respite before they enjoyably engaged again. Dimitri marveled that a girl almost a foot lower than his height, and several stones beneath his weight, could so effortlessly and easily match him in strength.

He felt something stir in the ashes of his soul, wanting him to bare all to Edelgard, to confess everything to her, all that he knew about their...family.

But as always, something dark in Edelgard’s now pigmentless eyes glittered, a severity and a ruthlessness to match his own, as cold as her hair, held him back. She was a different person now...as was he. And as always, his mind skittered away from confronting the day of the Tragedy directly...but Dimitri was now convinced, beyond doubt, that Edelgard had been forced to undergo a similar Tragedy. One that had started the day she had left Fhirdiad with a cruel and abrupt Lord Volkhard von Arundel.

Edelgard was rubbing blood from a superficial scalp wound from her eyes, matting her snow white hair. “Prince Dimitri...if this...is...your version...of going easy,” Edelgard coughed suddenly, and hacked a large gout of blood from her mouth. Unmindful of the ghastly image of blood down her pale chin, Edelgard smiled at him between pants. “It seems...I have...underestimated you.”

“Edelgard...I have always known you...as a worthy...opponent,” Dimitri said firmly, trying to control his muscles and breathing once more. Blood and sweat deeply stained his own hair and uniform.

Edelgard wiped her chin on a white glove already stained dark red, holding her axe ready behind her as she steadied her voice to its regular, haughty tone. “There you go again. When have I known you, Dimitri? I have never met you, aside from when we were introduced a few months ago at the start of the semester. Perhaps we met as suckling babes during some cross-Fodlan noble conference, but only that!”

This was too much. Dimitri felt himself losing himself, losing his control at her words. It was all he could do to not snap at the voices in his head, or snarl at their faces so close to his own. He was losing the last link to his childhood, feeling that it was falling away forever, because it did not remember him. Trying to tightly control his emotions, focusing past his pain, Dimitri leaned heavily on his lance, his face only holding sadness and despair. “You really do not remember, do you?”

“What? You said something to Byleth, didn’t you?! What secret do you think you know about me, Dimitri?” she demanded, suddenly enraged beyond poise. Her face revealed nothing but disgust and contempt. “What could you _possibly_ know about me?! You do not _know_ me!” Edelgard shouted, her control lost, her face raw and exposed. Hilda and Linhardt both watched from the ground with mute fascination, as they had throughout the entire duel. The Imperial Princess looked almost to rush and attack at that moment, her rage clearly burning her, scorning the look of pity on Dimitri’s face. Dimitri felt an icy stillness form inside of him as he stared at her in shock, feeling the last door to his idyllic childhood slamming shut with the finality of a coffin lid. 

“Very well,” rasped Dimitri harshly. “...Edelgard. I suppose I am simply sorry that your mother died in the Tragedy. The…” Dimitri interrupted himself and shook his head quickly, blinking, then growled, “Shall we continue?” He raised his lance in a ready stance.

Edelgard gave another bloody smile as she raised her axe on guard. “What are you speaking of? My...mother...died…” she stammered and swallowed, briefly, but then the mask was back in place. “She’s dead. She died a long time ago, you delusional fool. Although I must say, your attempts to confuse and distract me are quite skilled, Prince Dimitri. Again, my compliments. You are much more competent than I have judged.” Edelgard readied her swing, and both of them tensed to charge, their stances widening before the clash.

A sudden arrow sliced the air next to Dimitri’s ear, coming close to almost striking Edelgard as well, before it bounced off the ground and skidded before Linhardt, still kneeling at the edge of the small clearing. It was an unfortunate miss by Claude, as Dimitri immediately dived forward and rolled on the ground, turning around to bring his weapon before him, his bloodstained face grim and ready. Professor Jeralt crashed through the forest at the opposite end of the clearing, his pole axe ready and an uncharacteristic expression of softness on his battle scarred face. Edelgard whirled around to face the former Knight, her axe held before her in a two handed grip. Unconsciously, both Prince and Princess stepped backwards from their new enemies until they were back to back.

Jeralt gave a groaning sigh that could be heard across the entire woods, then shouted, “Claude! What did I say about interrupting duels between worthy opponents?”

Claude’s voice came back in reply after a short pause. “Um...you didn’t say...but I guess doing that was bad…?”

“Yes Claude! It was very bad...for us. Hold your draw for a minute,” yelled Jeralt, then resumed in a more normal voice, one still hoarse from soot and smoke. “I heard you kids talking. If either of you need time to deal...I’m prepared to call it if need be. There’s just the four of us left I think. You two, and me and Claude. Otherwise we can keep going. It’s up to your Highnesses to decide.”

Now it was Claude’s turn to loudly groan from his hiding spot. “Captain Teach!” he whined loudly. “I can end this right now! You distract them and I’ll take them out...”

“It’s called honor, Claude,” yelled Jeralt back loudly. “It’s a bit important to us here in Fodlan. Yeah, it’s not always followed, or obeyed, or recognized...but still...it’s important. Somehow...you just know when it’s right to count on it.” He locked gazes with Edelgard, holding his pole axe in a loose grip. “Well?” he drawled.

*

Edelgard regarded the Professor with interest, realizing this man’s offer was genuine. More than that, his easy banter had reigned in Claude, who could have easily ambushed either her or Dimitri by now. He had also drawn his speech out, giving both her and Dimitri the time needed to recover from their emotional outbursts. His casual leadership was...uncanny. She also recognized another uncomfortable flash, an instant recognition of a certain kinship between the two of them. This man...Byleth’s father…

“Edelgard?” whispered Dimitri behind her.

So, Dimitri was deferring to her decision. His passivity and weakness would be his undoing, one day. Although this thread between them must be later teased out. That could wait. She was on a battlefield at the moment, and she could still stand, and fight, even if she was the last Black Eagle left.

Edelgard made her decision without hesitation.

“Dimitri...we will continue later,” she murmured almost soundlessly, hardly moving her lips. “For now...the Golden Deer have us at a disadvantage. I say lance against lance, axe against bow.”

“I hear,” he whispered back. She felt him tense behind her.

Somehow, wordlessly, they timed their movements with perfect synchronization. Edelgard twisted under Dimitri and his lance, running to where she had last heard Claude’s voice, while the Blue Lion House Leader rotated to charge directly at the Golden Deer Professor, who merely raised his weapon on guard. Quick clacks in between grunts sounded behind her as Edelgard ran forward low to the ground, her axe on guard.

She sensed more than heard an arrow coming from her left, and she shifted her axeblade to deflect it desperately. Somehow she succeeded and dove to her right, scrabbling low on her elbows and knees until she could place wood and vegetation between her and where she expected Claude had placed himself. Seconds passed as she tried to anticipate Claude’s movements in response to her own, her honed mind bent towards the challenge.

Dimitri exchanged several more blows, parries, feints and disengages with Professor Jeralt, but felt with dismay that his fine training lance was weakening, despite being made from stout wood, sheathed in the finest steel, and reinforced by magic. It was bending and cracking with every parry and thrust he made with the grim Professor, and Dimitri was soon left holding a mass of splinters. And he saw the new Professor knew it as well. 

With a final snap from a blocked swing of the poleax, Dimitri’s lance was broken in two. Dimitri grabbed the longer end, desperately thrusting it toward Jeralt’s face. The old Knight knocked it aside, but Dimitri made his true play as he abandoned his ruined weapon and grabbed at his foe’s weapon in return. With his superior strength, he could rip it out of the Professor’s hands, he thought, as he flexed his broad shoulders and leaned backwards…

Nothing happened.

Astonished, Dimitri tried again. And again. Sweating and straining he tugged and pulled, digging in his heels, but Jeralt simply held firmly to his poleaxe, planting his feet and regarding Dimitri with something between amusement and respect.

“Done yet?” grunted Jeralt.

Dimitri suddenly snarled and tossed his head at his opponent’s face, feeling satisfied as it connected although the impact only increased his migraine and left him slightly dazed.

Jeralt stared at the Prince, still holding his weapon, his nose askew and dripping blood. He smiled suddenly at Dimitri, who was still trying to blink the cobwebs away. Then pitched his head forward in return, his large forehead impacting against Dimitri’s royal brow. The Prince released the poleaxe and staggered backward, and with a spin of his weapon haft, Jeralt knocked the woozy Prince stumbling to the ground. Jeralt let out a slow breath and used the time to try and carefully reset his nose somewhat properly.

Edelgard crept low through the woods, hurling herself to the ground near trees, then scrambling forward quickly behind more cover, the slightest depression, or the smallest log. She thought she might be near Claude’s position, but she heard nothing, saw nothing. The forest seemed unnaturally still and artificial as she peered slowly around. The tension was slowly building as no more arrows came forth, and she cautiously led with her axe through the woods, scanning tree boughs and ground cover alike, her heart pounding as she tried to breath only slowly and soundlessly through her nose.

A rustle and a thump to her right. Edelgard instantly bent lower to the ground, blades of weedy grasses tickling her face as she tried to strain her neck upwards to look around.

The sound repeated.

Finally, she saw it to her left. A skillfully woven hunter’s blind, hidden near a young tree and log. So. Claude was trying to make her expose herself, by tossing pebbles or some other detritus through the air to make her reveal her location. But she had found him first. Tensing, she gripped her axe tightly in both hands, knowing she would have only one chance. With an explosion of muscle, the Princess lept upward to throw her large axe directly at the blind, hurling the large weapon like a maul with a single spin. Her aim was unerring as it tore through the sticks and vegetation, revealing...nothing.

Even as her eyes widened in shock at this, Edelgard felt something punch her hard in the right shoulder, quickly spinning her off-balance body to the ground. The twin impacts deprived her of breath and she laid on the bed of rotten leaves and grasses, stunned, gasping for air through lungs that didn’t seem to want any.

*

To her right, Claude rose from the bushes where he had been tapping the ground, a broad smile on his face. The reward of a sneaky reputation was that you could occasionally play it straight. Edelgard sounded like she was breathing steadily enough, and he wanted to see if Captain Jeralt needed help against Dimitri. He quickly sprinted back to the clearing where he had last seen them, just in time to see the Professor rubbing his nose with a disarmed Dimitri on his hands and knees before him.

Excitement bubbled through Claude. He gave an irrepressible whoop of joy and gave a thumbs up to a grinning Hilda on the ground, as he walked up to the Professor. “Captain Teach! I think we did it!”

Jeralt’s voice sounded nasal, and his nose was bloody, but he appeared unharmed otherwise. “That it?” he said shortly.

“Yep!” Claude beamed up at his Professor. “That’s the Golden Deer House for ya! We won the mock--”

A hiss of air, and Claude pitched forward suddenly, landing face down in the trampled dirt and grass next to Dimitri. Jeralt looked surprised and tried to bring his weapon back on guard, but a second black arrow thumped him in the chest on his sternum, causing him to wheeze and stumble backwards even though his armor. A third arrow slammed into his hip as he tried to desperately turn, and Jeralt, unwilling to take any more impacts, surrendered his weapon and dropped the ground as he bellowed out, “That’s enough! Whoever’s doing that, I’m dead! You got me!”

The woods were silent aside from the sounds of harsh breathing and Claude’s snores. A long minute passed.

Then, faintly, a whimpering voice called, “Um. Uh...L-Lady Edelgard? Did I do ok?”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some of the dialogue and interactions here are acknowledgements/tributes to a LOT of tropes that I think people will recognize. Lysithea being a murder goddess, Racist!Ingrid, Hilda as murder goddess, Linhardt being savage, Dorogrid, Raphael basically being Samwise, Super-Bernie, etc.
> 
> Edelgard acting out is a little OOC, but the more I thought about it, what does Edelgard hate more than anything. Pity and compassion. It burns her like nothing else, and I think that's fairly canon.
> 
> Jeralt is Dimi-level stronk IMO.
> 
> Just because they had these interactions doesn't mean their locked in stone for the rest of the story. There will be a lot of fallout from this, but it will be addressed.
> 
> And yes, I know there's no Rune magic in this game, but all those symbols on those floors had to come from somewhere, right? I was trying to come up for a way that Dorothea could use her acting ability.


	15. Confirmation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People will forget what you said.   
> People will forget what you did.   
> But, people will never forget how you made them feel. 
> 
> -–Maya Angelou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably a chapter I could have skipped. But...my blood compels me.

Ch 15

Confirmation

“What a mess,” Catherine sighed.

Byleth was inclined to agree. The smoke in the woods was being cleared by Hubert, under orders from Professor Manuela. The young man had looked briefly rebellious at the thought of anything that would take him from Lady Edelgard’s side, until Trips suggested that breathing cleaner air would aid in the Princess’ recovery. The grim young man immediately pursued the task, conjuring moderate breezes throughout the immediate vicinity to fan the smoke away.

The smoke from the battle was finally clearing, with every remaining fire doused by dirt by diligent students and knights, and Manuela, Trips, and Flayn hurried about between the injured students, setting bones, mending wounds, and easing pain. Several cadets had to be tended to on site, such as Felix, Edelgard, and Ingrid. Others, such as Leonie, Claude, and Dimitri were forced to settle themselves and not move too quickly after the blows they experienced. To aid in compliance and discipline, Catherine posted additional Knights by these students, despite the constant, rebellious protests. Relatively uninjured students, such as Caspar, Dedue, and Ferdinand were set to various campground tasks to keep them from getting underfoot. Mercedes moved among classmates and rivals alike, giving freely whatever healing magic or assistance she could provide, followed by a silent Marianne who did her best to mimic the older woman. They were allowed to tend to more minor injuries, such as Raphael’s broken nose or Ashe’s broken ribs. Now Jeralt, Hanneman, Catherine, Shamir, and Byleth were huddled in conference, several dozen yards away from the students, near the Golden Deer starting position and main camp of the Knights.

Shamir spoke in her flat tone. “If we go by the traditional rules of the field, then the Black Eagle House wins.”

Jeralt nodded but felt he had to stand up for his class. “But the Golden Deer had the most individual victories…”

“And then there’s the gallantry shown by Prince Dimitri,” said Professor Hanneman, with a touch of pride. “He aided a foe in the middle of combat, at considerable risk to himself. And there’s also the tactical ingenuity of young Lady Annette! I do believe that these acts deserve some token of recognition.”

“What do you think, Byleth? You’ve not said anything yet,” said Jeralt, looking at his daughter. Byleth frowned up at her father, deep in thought. She wasn’t sure if she was being influenced by Sothis or not, but she heard nothing in her head. Then she reproached herself at her display of hesitancy; she was a full Knight of Seiros now, so she needed to start acting like it and stop being so passive, and allowing her dad to run everything for her.

Byleth looked around at the group. “No one wins,” she stated firmly.

To her surprise, the others nodded in agreement. Catherine said, “I think I agree. Considering how close this battle was, and how there was only one person left standing at the end of it, that’s the right lesson to impart to the students, even though we’re technically violating our own rules.”

“War is hell? That’s the oldest lesson in the book,” muttered Shamir, looking away with a roll of her eyes.

“But one that I think we must emphasize,” nodded Hanneman. “Despite our merciful actions and adept tactics, the Blue Lions availed themselves nothing in the end. The Golden Deer were defeated despite their superior strength and strategies, when one could argue they did everything right. And the Black Eagles technically won, but...ahem...shall we say, left the least qualified individual, in terms of command and leadership, in possession of the field.”

Jeralt rubbed his sore and swollen nose gently as he turned it over in his mind, and eventually said, “That all has merit, but I think that some honors should be given. Maybe we could nominate two or three students from each house for individual contributions? Excluding professors,” he added with a smirk at Hanneman.

Hannaeman was distressed at the attention. “Ah, yes, of course…” he said quickly, absently massaging his shoulder. “Well, I’m prepared to defer to Knight Shamir’s recommendations for the Blue Lion House…”

The archer held a hand on her hip as she regarded the milling forms of the students and Knights. “Dimitri for certain. Chivalry is overrated but he did the right thing for his classmate. We just need to make him learn that he can’t do that with everyone. The other two would probably be Sylvain and Ingrid, although they both could have done better.”

Catherine harrumphed at the end. “Right. Ingrid could not have been struck by lightning…”

Shamir gave a dismissive toss of her purple hair. “You walk into a trap, you get trapped. Especially if someone is obviously taunting you. Good lesson.”

“We told them not to use lethal spells--!” Catherine protested to her fellow Knight angrily. “We coached them on this over and over again!”

Byleth interrupted her senior. “But it wasn’t lethal. Dorothea has already apologized and told me she’s willing to face any consequences for her actions. I think that speaks well for her.”

Catherine crossed her arms, her armor clanking together. “Fine. Who wants to tell her to clean out her room, you or me?”

Byleth simply stared at the older woman, and soon Jeralt coughed discreetly and said, “Catherine, don’t tell me you’ve never hit someone harder than you should have in training.” Shamir snorted at that.

Looking around herself with none of the others speaking, Catherine gave a final dismissive grunt and said, “It seems I’m in the minority here. Fine, but I’m definitely going to bring this up with Lady Rhea.”

The group continued talking, and eventually came to a consensus. The initial Mock Battle would have no declared victor among the Houses, but certain students were noted for individual valor. Shamir’s choices held, and Catherine nominated Lysithea, Hilda, and Claude for the Golden Deer. Byleth chose Bernadetta and Petra, and to Catherine’s irritation, Dorothea as notaries for the Black Eagles. Perhaps a bit spitefully, Byleth was then ordered by the Holy Knight to ride to each picket and the ridgeline to notify the other Knights to prepare for return march tomorrow. Byleth nodded and saluted in unemotional compliance, but noticed her father discreetly signaling her, using hand signs they had developed years ago. He lingered by Byleth as she moved to the rope corral where the Knights had placed the horses.

Laying a hand on her shoulder as if in fatherly affection, he faintly squeezed it as he leaned close. “This is why I had doubts about rejoining the Church, kid. Did you hear what Catherine did there?” he breathed into her ear.

Byleth thought she did, and murmured up to him, “It was unfair.”

He smiled easily but his eyes were hard. “Exactly. Catherine is willing to bend or break the rules when it suits her, but for anyone else, she’s black and white. And she learned that from Lady Rhea.” He smiled more widely and patted her shoulder in a display of fatherly affection, but his quiet warning chilled Byleth. “We’re fighting for the Knights. But we’re not going to trust them.”

*

“He did not say single words while we sat together. I worried greatly that his back was crippling him,” said Petra, sitting by a cookfire with Annette. Both girls had their arms in slings and splints, as Knights and students moved about on various duties.

Annette shook her head. “That’s typical Felix. He’ll waste your time with mean words or criticism, and then when there’s something important going on he either shuts up or disappears. You’re good with the Fodlan language now, Petra, but you still have to learn Felix-ese.”

“Ah...my pardon, but why is Felix easy?” wondered Petra curiously.

Annette giggled. “I was making a joke. Felix-ese is the language of Felix. We’re all still learning how to translate it into the Fodlan language.”

Petra brightened at her fellow student. “I think I have the understanding. Felix is hard to understand for the all, not for just me.”

“Exactly!” said Annette enthusiastically, then winced as her arm pained her. She sighed as she considered her fellow Blue Lion. “It’s just so hard to talk to him. So don’t feel bad, Petra. It’s not anything you did wrong. He pushes everyone away, because that’s who he is.”

Petra sat thoughtfully for a moment, staring at the fire. “It is sad. He is very strong. Such a strong man could have many wives, much family in Brigid, because he could provide many for them. But if he does not talk, then no one would want him. No one wants a man who cannot talk, no matter how strong he is being.”

The Fodlan noblewoman considered and slowly said, “I think it’s the same way here in Fodlan...um...although, maybe except for the ‘many wives’ part.”

The Brigid princess sighed and stirred the fire with a stick. “It is so a tragedy. He is the handsome…”

On this Annette felt she could fully agree. “Oh, I know! Grrrrrrrrr...it’s so irritating it makes me want to smack him! Um...except, he’d probably slice my hand off. Darn it! Why is it that the cutest boy in the monastery only talks to swords?” Annette said mournfully, putting her chin to her uninjuried hand.

“Talks to...swords?” Petra asked, dropping her stick. She turned to Annette in excitement. “Annette, this is it! You have given me an ecstasy!”

“Ah...Petra? I think you meant ‘epiphany’…”

Petra was so excited she wasn’t listening. “You said we had to be learning the language of Felix, yes? Then what you said is right! The language of Felix is the sword language!” she exclaimed, her brown face shining as she clenched her fist. “I will train hard with my sword, and have a great long talk with Felix until I have done the beatings!”

“Aw, c’mon, Petra, that doesn’t help the rest of us at all!” protested Annette. “That means only you, Dorothea, and Leonie would have a chance! This stinks!” she pouted.

“Do not worry, Annette! I can help train you in the sword arts…”

“Excuse me.”

Both girls looked up from the campfire to see Linhardt standing above them, his right arm in a sling similar to their own. “Do you mind if I sit by your fire? I think I’ve done all the healing I can do today with my left hand, and I am beat.”

Petra smiled warmly. “Linhardt. You may share the fire, if you are wanting.” Annette smiled uneasily, not sure about the odd noble boy from the Black Eagle House. Although he was better than Hubert. Ten Linhardts would be better than a Hubert. Maybe even a hundred.

“Thank you,” said Linhardt, carefully easing himself to the ground by the fire. He looked at each girl, then fixed lazy eyes at Annette. “I’m sorry to interrupt your chat, but something very important has just come up.”

“What?” asked Annette cautiously.

“I talked to Professor Manuela, and she has agreed to approve of my charter of forming the Student Broken Arm Club. I think three cadets are enough founding members, don’t you think?” Linhardt smiled. Annette took a moment, but then started laughing with Linhardt. After a bit of back and forth, Petra laughed as well.

The young Blue Lion unconsciously rubbed her sore arm. “How does Hilda swing an axe almost as big as she is? It almost seems physically impossible...”

“That, Annette, is something I could talk about for days...but I won’t. Suffice to say, certain Crest-bearers have affinities for certain weapons. Something to do with their Crest-associated Family Relic. I’d imagine you’d might have an affinity for hammers,” said Linhardt with a yawn.

“What, you mean like Crusher? Like I’d want anything to do with that creepy thing. It gave me the heebie-jeebies just to look at it, hanging above the family seat in Castle Dominic,” Annette shuddered. “Give me a good spellbook anyday.” Linhardt nodded in wholehearted agreement.

“What...what is the Crusher?” asked Petra curiously.

“My family’s Relic,” explained Annette. “I have the Crest of Dominic, and our House Relic weapon is a giant bone hammer called Crusher. I hated looking at it when I was younger. It made me feel...strange, just looking at it.”

The Brigid Princess looked confused. “Why bone weapons? Is not the steel much better? In Brigid, there are artisans who make bone crafts from the bodies of the sea-kings. But they are much only a tradition for these days.”

This prompted a longer explanation for the island teenager by the two Fodlan nobles, which left her only slightly less confused. “It is oddity that I have never heard of such...Relics,” she said slowly, sounding out the unfamiliar word. The tattooed Princess faced Linhardt curiously. “Do not the noble families of the Empire have such great weapons?”

Linhardt smiled broadly at the question. “They used to, although some of them were not bone, but made of an ancient blessed silver from the Church of Seiros that was almost as powerful. However, they all disappeared during the Imperial Renaissance about a hundred years ago, when the Southern Church was dissolved and the Ministry of Religion rose under House Varley. My House’s own Holy Relic, the Caduceus Staff of Cethlenn, was thought to be stolen by Knights of Seiros in disguise, under the orders of Archbishop Oghma. It’s still a sore subject among most nobles in the Empire that the Holy Kingdom and Alliance nobles still have their own Relics and they don’t.”

Petra poked at the embers of the dying fire with her stick restlessly as she tried to listen. “Then where does Knight Catherine get her Thunderbrand? It too must be a Relic?

Annette said slowly, “Thunderbrand was always associated with House Charon, from the Kingdom…”

Linhardt yawned and nodded. “It seems likely she’s a noble from that House. Maybe she decided to swear herself to the Central Church. I heard many Kingdom nobles did so after the Tragedy. I would like to see it in action sometime….”

Petra shuddered and stood in a smooth motion, despite her broken collarbone. “I would not. My homeland has legends of powerful weapons of great magics, being sought by young and foolish warriors. But all of them soon learn that the spirits never are giving blessings for free. There is always the price.” She bowed briefly to each of her companions. “The fire needs more wood to be fuel. I will return.”

As Petra left their small campsite, Linhardt seemed to be struggling to not doze off in the afternoon sun, while Annette studied him. She ventured reluctantly, “You know...you’re not half bad company when you’re awake, Linhardt.”

The dozing nobleman snapped awake at that. “Oh. Um, yes well, I was trying to make an effort. I’m pleased you appreciate it.”

“Uh, actually, I did. But I’m also wondering what you really want.”

“You know, I’m quite happy that I’m so completely transparent. It seems to simplify matters, allowing for more naptime.” Linhardt made an effort to force his lidded eyes open on Annette. “I must admit, yes, I wanted to learn something. So I thought of my most approachable redhead acquaintance in the Blue Lion House, and here I am.”

Annette blushed at his directness. “You must have me mixed up with Sylvain…”

Linhardt shook his head easily. “You’d be surprised to know that he hates both sexes equally. And besides, even if I could get him to talk, would I believe anything he said? No, of course not. My desire is to get history right on something. Trying to chase down inaccuracies in the historical timeline is so tedious and boring. And it’s a small detail, really. As a mutual scholar, I was hoping you could aid my understanding of the history of Faerghus nobility.”

Annette rolled her eyes at his attempt at flattery. For Linhardt, this was probably the height of romance, but she decided to humor him. “Ok, fine. What do you want to know?”

“Just one thing. What was the name of King Lambert’s Queen?”

“Oh, that’s easy! That was Queen Consort Patricia. But...she was just Prince Dimitri’s stepmother, because his real mom died right after he was born. Some kind of disease or plague I think, that Archmage Cornelia managed to cure.”

“I...see. And may I assume Queen Patricia was on that fateful journey to Duscar?”

“Yeah,” said Annette shortly, not willing to add more. Like most of her classmates, she had difficulty discussing the events of the still recent Tragedy, being personally affected by it. Briefly absorbed in her own thoughts, she glanced over to Linhardt, noting with interest that for once, his eyes were wide open, with his brow furrowed in concentration.

*

“Wait, I’m confused. Why would Dimitri think Edelgard’s mother died in the Tragedy? That’s...random.”

“I don’t know! I was hoping you could tell me! You’re supposed to be the smart one!”

“By the Gods, Hilda, keep your voice down…”

Claude looked up around the tree where they were sitting and whispering, but no one was paying any attention to two “injured” noble cadets. Knights and healers moved about, readjusting lines and perimeters and camps to be nearby students that were too injured to move just yet. Claude only still had a headache from Bernadetta’s arrow, but he was considered a ‘high priority student,’ meaning extra Knights and mercs were placed around him. At least he got to share company with Hilda in the meantime, and had learned these extra morsels of information from their surreptitious whispers.

He had already seen several Knights move by, carrying cots for the critically injured students. Felix had passed by first, the stoic, sarcastic swordsman looking relaxed for once while apparently asleep. Dimitri had been placed in a cot too, despite his angry protests to Flayn and Manuela, which were only finally silenced when his loyal retainer Dedue spoke a private word to him. He then agreed but looked like he was angry with the sky itself as his cot went by where Claude was sitting. Finally, just now, Edelgard was passing by with four Knights easily carrying her, looking nothing more than a pale white corpse staring sightlessly upwards as she was brought closer to the main camp of the Knights, save for the slow rise and fall of her chest. Claude winced at that. Beating the Imperial Princess in this battle might result in a long term grudge, despite his best efforts at equanimity. Maybe a gesture of conciliation would be appropriate, but what form should it take…?

A potent rush of apple and floral scents...mixed with the smells of battle...washed over him. Hilda was now leaning over him and staring, her face and hair inches from his own. “Well?” she demanded imperiously.

“Well what?” asked Claude innocently.

“I asked you to do something.”

“And here’s a shocker for you...I’m still thinking about it. Sorry, Hilda. Thinking takes time and effort, just like everything else,” Claude said, giving her his most brilliant smile.

Hilda didn’t smile back at first. “Claude...I try to tell you things in confidence, but if you want me to keep telling you things, I think you need to tell me things. After all, I probably shouldn’t have told you in the first place. And if I tell everyone else...” she ended sweetly.

Claude closed his eyes...she was trying to distract him...and said easily, “Go ahead, then.”

She was rocked briefly by the dismissal, and he could hear her lean back. “Whaat? Claude, this is a mystery! I thought you liked mysteries--!”

“Oh, I do...but, as you said, Linhardt also saw everything that happened too, right?” he yawned and made a show of getting comfortable against the tree. “I’m sure he’ll solve it for us…”

Hilda scoffed in his ear. “Yeah, he might solve it for you, but will he actually find the time of day to tell you? Besides, this is personal for me. I wouldn’t mind getting back a bit at Edelgard…”

“Then get back at her.”

“I can’t, without you!” A silence. That stretched on by, heavy with threat. Then a small, refined sigh, one that signalled Hilda at her most dangerous. “Oh dear...I guess you really won’t help me, will you? So I guess I need to go ahead and just spread the gossip. Let’s see now...oh look, there’s Dorothea across the clearing…”

Claude instantly opened his eyes and sat up, touching Hilda’s arm before she could rise. “Wait. Ok. You got me,” he smiled up at her. “Heh...you called my bluff pretty easily.”

“Really?” Hilda smiled as she sat down again. “You did have me going there with your act. You’re hard to read sometimes, even for me! So, did you use all that time to come up with some great ideas?”

Claude settled back into lounging against the tree trunk. “Not really, but maybe we can trade ideas for a bit and come up with something. So...do you think Dimitri was being honest?”

“Totally. I don’t think he’s even capable of being dishonest, now that you mention it…”

“So, he’s a reliable source. What about Edelgard’s reaction?”

“Hmmm. Whatever he said to her made her extremely upset. You know how she struts about, always being so serious and ruining everyone else’s fun. She even shouted at Dimitri! Edelgard never shouts!”

“So that means she was worried about what Dimitri said. Now, do you think Edelgard was telling the truth?”

“Hm. She accused Dimitri of making stuff up...I think Edelgard can lie when it suits her, but I’m not sure if she was lying then. I think she believed whatever she was saying…”

“Good read, Hilda. I was thinking the same thing. Now, how could Dimitri know Edelgard’s mother? And what would she be doing on a Kingdom diplomatic mission to Duscar?”

“Oh, Claude...you jerk! You’re making me do all the work…!”

“Please Hilda?” he wheedled to her. “You’re much smarter than you think you are--! I’m just trying to get your insightful opinion...you’re so much more up-to-date on Fodlan nobility than I am.”

“Wow, Claude, you truly think so? That’s so nice! I think I might be…”

“Focus, Hilda.”

“Aw, can’t a lady take a moment to appreciate a compliment? Urg. Fine. Hm. Let’s see. Edelgard is a legitimate heir, and her father is certainly the Emperor. So her mother would have to have been married to him.”

“I think that sounds exactly what I was thinking. So what could possibly make her leave the Empire and end up in the Kingdom?”

“Arg! I don’t know! Maybe she stopped being a noble? Maybe she was disinherited? Maybe the Emperor divorced her?”

“Wait, that’s my fault. I asked the wrong question. Let’s try it this way: what event in the Empire would be impactful enough to cause her to do any of those things?

“Oh goshes, that’s almost as big of a list, Claude--!”

“Not that big. It would have to be something fairly recent, so she could end up in the Tragedy four years ago.”

“Well...there was the Dagdan-Empire War. I remember my family going on about that. There was also the Insurrection of the Seven, and the rebellion of House Hrym…but the only thing that affected the Imperial Family directly was the Insurrection...”

“That’s it, Hilda! I think you’re done. And you figured it out all by yourself! Give yourself a pat on the back, you should be proud of herself. I knew you could do it.”

“What--?!” Hilda was flabbergasted. “You...you actually made _me_ do all the work? Of figuring this out?” She was quiet as she thought over it, before a slow smile came over her face. “Huh. I guess I did. But why me?”

“Well, I just wanted to prove to you that you can do things on your own. You’re strong on the battlefield, quite the little social artiste, and I think you’re smart. You just need to put the same amount of effort at showing all of that to everyone instead of putting all of your effort into being lazy and whining. It’s the same amount of work, you know,” Claude said with an indolent wink. 

“Claude--you--that’s--” started Hilda in a thick voice, breaking off each time.

Uh-oh, thought Claude, tensing himself for a hasty exit.

“--that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me!” she exclaimed, wiping tears from her eyes, her face beaming like the moon. Soon she was genuinely crying out loud.

Claude was astonished enough by her reaction that he failed to hear Dorothea talk her way easily past the Knights and approach them. She sauntered up to them, her face alarmingly angry at Claude.

“Ok, Claude. I can tell when my delicate sweet Hilda is truly crying. What did you do?”

Claude was in a panic. “Me? I didn’t do anything--! I don’t even know what I did--! It’s not my fault!”

“Oh...Dorothea...it’s ok,” said Hilda between sniffles. “It’s just that…”

“Yes, my poor dear Hilda, what is it? Please tell me,” said Dorothea, kneeling by the other girl.

“...Claude believes in me--!” she burst out. “He thinks I’m smart, that I’m capable, that I’m strong....”

“Oh Goddess, Hilda! Really?” Dorothea gasped, her hands to her mouth.

“Yes! No one’s ever treated me like this! It’s just too much--!” Hilda fell hard against the taller woman in a hug. Soon both girls were whispering to each other, glancing back at Claude with calculating eyes.

Claude slowly edged away backwards from the two Fodlan women. At least they weren’t attacking him. Yet. He managed to scoot himself to the other side of the large tree, trying to think about what he had done to elicit such a reaction. He had gently coached Hilda along during the conversation, and then he had genuinely praised her--

Oh. It was hard to remember, especially after a battle with teammates and comrades, that after the battle everyone stopped being teammates and comrades. Instead, you went back to being noblemen and noblewomen. And he, Claude von Riegan, had effusively chatted with and complimented a fellow Alliance noblewoman. He had meant to only tease her with his playful manipulating, but then realized Hilda probably thought someone manipulating her meant you were showing...oh. Oh boy. He wasn’t sure how to deal with this new development. She was probably going to write about him in her next letter to her brother. Well, that was probably inevitable. What he had not anticipated in his schemes was an easy and apparently mutual attraction between himself and the sister of Lord Holst, Defender of Fodlan.

Claude’s thoughts were jumbled, but one flashed into his mind clearly. _Heh_...s _ee, Dad? We’re not that different after all…._

*

It was late afternoon when Byleth returned to the main camp from her assignment. At least Canis had enjoyed the ride, and Byleth dismissed the younger Knight-errant on stable duty, wanting a chance to bond with her mount. By the time she had finished grooming and feeding her, it was early evening and the companies and students were relaxing for the evening meal, at ease in secured territory. Byleth exited the rope corral where the horses were hobbled and found a smiling Hubert waiting for her.

He nodded curtly to Byleth. “She has been asking for you. If you will follow me.” Without ceremony, he turned and walked away. Byleth thought it amusing that he felt his petty noble insults would bother a former mercenary as she followed his back.

They did not travel far, walking shortly to the four wagons that had been brought in case any students were too badly injured to march...or for their bodies, had they been accidently killed. Trips and Manuela were nearby the first wagon, talking in low voices, while Flayn chatted away with Mercedes and Marianne. After hearing the story of what had happened to the young quiet noblewoman, the healers agreed to take Marianne off duty for the moment and had asked Mercedes to continue chaperoning her. The kind student enthusiastically agreed. Hubert led Byleth to the first wagon.

“Professor Manuela. Knight Beatrix. A good evening to you both,” said Hubert, bowing.

“Oh, there is Knight Byleth. Thank you for coming, dear. Poor Edelgard is recovering nicely after being healed, but I’m afraid she’s upset about something. She has refused to eat a meal or finally rest until she had the chance to speak with you,” said Manuela with worry in her tone.

“She’s an Officer cadet at Garreg Mach Academy. You could, perhaps, simply order her to take care of herself…” suggested an exasperated Trips, her omnipresent staff resting on her shoulder.

“Well, I could, but then she might refuse, and that would just create a political nightmare, wouldn’t you agree?” Manuela argued in a dulcet tone, waving her wand. She smiled with a slightly hard edge. “And it should be harmless. I think the Princess looks up to our young Knight, and just needs reassurance about her performance in the mock battle. After all, the other Black Eagle girls all got recognition…”

“Edelgard just wasn’t given her chance!” interrupted Byleth. Trips looked oddly at her, and Byleth felt heat on her skin as she tried to get the words out to explain. “I had to pick Bernadetta, because she was the last one standing, and I selected Petra because she was the most appropriate officer in the company. Then I had to pick Dorothea last to help her make a case for her to not get expelled for using too much magic. The Black Eagle House could have won easily, but aside from him--” Byleth waved at the quiet tall form of Hubert “--no other male student accepts Edelgard’s leadership. That’s a problem.”

Hubert grunted and nodded towards the Knight of Seiros, his face showing guarded respect. “As much as I wish I could say otherwise, that assessment is entirely accurate. It will be something for us to review, Professor.”

“In any case, I don’t think you need to tell this to us, kid,” said Trips, smiling with affection at her stepdaughter. “Go ahead and climb in. Manuela and I can keep busy. I trust that Lord Vestra will stand guard, at an appropriate distance?”

“Indeed, Knight Beatrix. I am the very soul of discretion.”

*

Byleth blinked as she entered the dim covered wagon, which was dark aside from a faint small lantern hanging from a rib beam hook overhead. Edelgard was lying on a pallet, sitting against the back wall of the wagon bed, her armor removed and bandages covering nearly the entirety of her body, the rest hidden by a single loose woolen shift. Without her armor and gear, piled in the corner, Edelgard looked even smaller and thinner than normal.

She was looking away from Byleth, into the wagon wall, examining the waxed cloth as if the mysteries of the world lay within. “Please sit down,” Edelgard said softly, not facing her. Byleth did so, feeling like she was about to be attacked at any moment. After a moment of difficulty, she removed her sword belt and eased down to the wagon floor.

Edelgard raised her voice slightly. “Hubert, do you hear?”

“I hear, Lady Edelgard,” came the muffled voice outside the wagon, behind the tarp flap. He chanted something in the language of magic, then his voice abruptly stopped.

Byleth felt nothing but confusion as Edelgard finally faced her. “There. Now we may speak.”

“What?” said Byleth, her voice sounding overly loud. “What did he do?” she turned her head, trying to understand what was different.

“Hubert has cast a spell of silence around the wagon. We cannot hear the camp beyond it, but no one can listen in on us as we...talk.”

Byleth strained her hearing to the utmost, but the only sounds were the two of them, breathing inside this enclosed space. It must be true, she thought, but then realized the implications. She faced Edelgard once more, who was regarding her intensely.

“What did Dimitri tell you about me?” Edelgard rang out with a tone an Empress.

Byleth quickly grew flustered at the direct question. “I’m sorry Edelgard, but I’m not sure if it’s good for me to say. I think you should talk to the Prince yourself--”

“Byleth,” said Edelgard loudly, her face fierce. “You misapprehend. This is not a question. This is a command. If you will not tell me, then I have no further use for you.”

The young Knight looked at her small friend, astonished, but saw in her Edelgard’s violet eyes pure will. She meant every word she said, Byleth saw, and felt herself grow cold at the realization, while something inside of her ached poignantly. Then the icy coolness settled in her own mind. If Edelgard wanted things to become formal between them again, she could do that. Easily.

“Your Imperial Highness, forgive me. But I hesitate to broach this subject because it directly deals with your...past.”

“Thank you for your consideration. But I will remain the judge of that. Continue, please.”

“Ok,” said Byleth, looking at the floorboards. Something was happening between them, and Byleth felt certain that what she was doing might be unwise. Dimitri might be angry at her, as well, for telling this to the Princess. But if she wanted to stay friends with Edelgard, she had no choice, even as she felt her mind rebel that Edelgard was pushing her to do this. She sighed and began her narrative, still looking at the bed of the wagon.

“At the feast for my Knighthood ceremony, I was in the gardens when Prince Dimitri approached me. He said he was glad we were friends, and wanted to tell me something about the two of you. Something about how you and he shared history, and he wanted to be friends with you again. He told me about the Insurrection of the Seven, and how your Uncle and Duke Aegir were the leaders, and how they hurt your father and family.”

“And how did Prince Dimitri know of all of this?” asked Edelgard, her voice now more intrigued and less authoritative.

Byleth continued in a dull tone. “Because he said something happened that made your Uncle lose, or something. Duke Aegir took charge of the Empire instead of him. So Lord Arundel, your mother, and you fled the Empire. You came to the Kingdom, to the capital in exile. Dimitri said he knew you for three years while you and your mother stayed with King Lambert.”

Silence stretched. Byleth waited stoically for the next command from Edelgard, not wanting to see what was happening. “I...I see,” came a shaking voice after minutes had passed. Byleth looked up, and saw with interest that Edelgard’s face twisted up in anguish. “What...what else did he say?”

Byleth shook her blue hair. “Not much else. Just...he thinks something bad happened to you. Something that caused you to lose all of your other brothers and sisters. That made you become the only heir to the throne.”

Edelgard was breaking down, trying to keep her emotions in check. Byleth watched in helpless fascination at the emotions writ plain on her friend’s marble face. “Yes...they all died…” she whispered. “But...I survived. I was the only survivor, the one to become the heir. But my poor brothers and sisters…” She suddenly, shockingly, hit herself with both hands in the head, her fingers curved like claws as they tangled into her silver hair. “They _all_ died! _All of them_!” she wept, her sobs sounding like the cries of a wounded animal.

Byleth stared at Edelgard’s outburst, surprised to see the commanding Princess lose all poise for the second time today. She knew Edelgard was sad, because of her tears and crying, but she also seemed...angry. At herself. Byleth wondered at what could cause such pain that you could still feel it years later, and what had happened to cause it. The ache in her chest intensified, and Byleth wanted to help her friend. But she didn’t know how to do so at this moment, and could only sit there, and feel useless.

The Princess’ fit was over almost as abruptly as it had begun. The storm of weeping passed, and Edelgard grimaced as she quickly rubbed her eyes with her bandaged fists, breathing hard. The princess swallowed once and began harshly in a thick voice, “If you tell anyone…”

“I won’t. Ever. On my life,” said Byleth instantly with a nod, cutting the threat short.

The Imperial heir stared at her, her breathing starting to slow down. “And you told Dimitri nothing about what we shared the night during your...vigil?”

“I gave you my oath,” Byleth muttered towards the Princess. “I meant it.” Reminded of the position she had been put in, Byleth looked back to the floor, feeling confused by her conflicting emotions.

Another silence stretched long between the two of them, until Byleth sensed Edelgard carefully moving to sit beside her. She turned to look at the Princess, and saw that Edelgard was regarding her with her chin propped on her knees, a mix of interest and amazement on her tear stained face.

“You really are my Knight, aren’t you?” asked Edelgard, her violet eyes searching Byleth’s own.

“I’m whatever you need me to be,” said Byleth firmly, meeting that gaze without a flinch. Then her thoughts turned dark, at what could make this proud noblewoman, her precious friend, cry so hard that it could almost rend her apart.

Edelgard looked at her strangely when she said that, but she was suddenly past caring at that moment. “Who did this to you?” Byleth demanded loudly. Her jaw was clenched and her nostrils flared as she grabbed her sword.

Edelgard looked pleased, then eventually surprised and faintly alarmed as Byleth swore and struggled with her sword and scabbard in the confines of the wagon without hitting her friend. _Does she not think that I’m being serious?_ thought Byleth with a flash of renewed anger.

Edelgard now spoke quickly. “They are people who I intend on having my revenge, my friend. But...they are too powerful, and too entrenched for now. I do not want your death to haunt me as well. Please...stay your anger, as I have done, until we can release it at the appropriate moment. Together.”

“They should pay for what they’ve done to you,” snarled Byleth, trying to buckle her sword belt in the cramped quarters. “You were hurt! As a child! And your poor brothers and sisters...I can’t allow that! I won’t! That’s evil! Evil!” She turned her back on her friend.

Edelgard grabbed Byleth’s wrist in a grip of iron before she could duck and leave the wagon, despite her finger splints on the wounded hand. “Byleth,” she commanded again. “Calm down, please. Now.”

Byleth struggled against her friend’s strong grip, but eventually dropped down in resignation. She didn’t want to hurt Edelgard accidently, or anyone else. And of course it was a stupid and pointless gesture, but the thought of Edelgard in pain…. She blinked her eyes and tried her best to do as Edelgard had said, and the immense blaze inside of her calmed, then cooled completely as a spark of wonder stole through her. She looked quickly back to Edelgard, feeling her violent rage gone and replaced by...something else. “Anger. That was anger,” she wondered to her friend with the directness of an innocent. Byleth felt her breathing increase as she felt...something inside of her...

Edelgard stared at her friend, amazement now shining on her face, making her face almost glow. “Yes, Byleth. And what I did earlier...”

“Sadness. I think...I think I felt sad as well. You were in such pain, I think it made me sad. My chest almost...hurt. On the inside,” said Byleth, pressing her hands to her chest. It felt so strange, but she gripped it with all she had, not wanting to let it go. To let anything inside of her go. “I think I hurt along with you...while you were...you know....

Edelgard looked almost ready to cry again at whatever she was seeing on Byleth’s face. Instead she smiled widely, a sincere smile that made Byleth feel...even more strange. “Yes, my friend! And what are you feeling now?”

“...I...I don’t know. I feel...good. And right...am I doing it right?” said Byleth self-consciously, pressing her hands against her own heart, her stomach, her head. She had never done this before, and she faintly hoped Edelgard didn’t think she was acting foolish. Trying to study the strange things inside of her, Byleth slowly said, “It’s...strange...and light. I can’t describe it. It feels good though. I do know that.”

Another pleasant shock went through her, when, unmindful of her station or her wounds, the Princess next to her reached out and gripped Byleth’s armored shoulder firmly. “I told you I am not an expert on such matters, Byleth. But I believe what you are feeling now is...happiness. You are simply happy, my friend. And you are right...it was...I mean it is...a good feeling,” she said slowly through an odd smile.

Of course. It was so obvious. Looking at her friend, with her hands pressed against her chest, Byleth found she could only say, “Edelgard...you make me happy.”

Somehow that was the wrong thing to say. Edelgard’s face suddenly twisted at her words, her smile falling away as if it were banished. Tears began to fall once more, and she removed her hand and curled as far away from Byleth as she could get, as if Byleth was a source of pain. Byleth felt the good feeling vanish in an instant.

“Edelgard? I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?” she asked, feeling confused. Even this familiar feeling of confusion had a new, shaky sensation that came with it. Byleth thought this one did not feel nearly as good.

Though her shoulders were shaking and her head was averted, Edelgard’s voice came to her clearly. “No, Byleth. You’ve done nothing wrong. Just...please go, and leave me. Remember your oath, but leave.”

“I don’t understand…”

“No, you do not,” agreed Edelgard, still muffled. “Return to your duty, Knight of Seiros. Thank you for your time.” She still refused to look at Byleth.

The phantom pain returning, Byleth stared at the form of her friend, knowing another strange thing was happening, but she did not want to do the wrong thing. There was too much at stake to carelessly dismiss her new friendship. Edelgard looked like she was in pain again, but Byleth didn’t know anyway to make inside pain go away for someone. She didn’t even know how to do it for herself. The manners and lessons of respect for others that were taught to her were quickly reviewed in her mind. Trips had explained it to her one way, and Zarad another, but something her dad had told her after one night stuck with her: “Sometimes when people feel sad, kid, they feel dirty. So they just want a chance to clean themselves up.”

Byleth felt some of the phantom pain ease. Edelgard was still her friend, but she just needed time alone. That had to be the reason for her friend acting odd. And her terrible memories, she reminded herself. Somehow she was making them worse for the Princess. That made sense. Byleth nodded and rose into a crouch.

“Edelgard...please get some rest. And eat. I want you to feel better. I promise I won’t say anything…except to tell Hubert you need some food,” Byleth said quietly. The wagon rocked slowly as the Knight brushed past the tarp, and the brief moment of silence Edelgard had to herself soon vanished as the mundane sounds of Knights and students settling into camp for the night suddenly intruded like a roaring ocean.

*

Edelgard angrily tried to wipe her eyes and nose clean, not caring if Hubert saw her, but more angry at herself for the loss of control. After all, he had seen her in far worse states. And he was absolutely loyal, even if he did keep secrets. Musing on the subject of loyalty, Edelgard pondered if Byleth was ensnared enough by her overt displays of emotion to be fully on her side. Perhaps. Her own dawning sensitivity should make sure of that. The simple mercenary turned Knight could still be easily led by the nose, like a naive child trusting the first stranger she met. Edelgard had to admit the subject matter was...difficult. The risks of this game were high, but the reward of stealing a Knight of Seiros to her cause, right from under the despicable reptile; that was an appealing thought which kept her focused on her goal. And there were still secrets to be cozened from the daughter of Jeralt…and Prince Dimtri.

So she had known Dimitri before….she had changed. She had lived in Fhirdiad? Unconsciously, her eyes lingered over the bloody shreds of her armor and uniform, drawn for a moment on her sentimental childhood dagger. She would have to dwell on this. But she had Byleth to thank for being such a useful covert agent. Too bad she didn’t know it, and Edelgard hoped she never would.

It had taken some effort, but now the strange woman was a source of reliable intelligence. She and her father had almost ruined her plans in Remire, but Edelgard was used to setbacks. For her entire life she had been fighting against them, turning them into goals, motivations, opportunities. Byleth might be a Knight of Seiros, but she was anything but devout and could be slowly turned away from the Church in time. They already shared several precious moments, and now with Byleth slowly becoming awakened to true emotions, due to her infatuation, there might be a possibility of a...relationship. In a limited sense. But regardless of her own feelings--or Byleth’s--naivete and weakness had no place in this world. Her Knight would have to be tempered and hardened to the reality of the world before she could trust her. Edelgard began to sense that Byleth’s condition would soon begin working both ways. The more she learned about her own emotions, the more she would start redirecting them towards others. Edelgard just needed to be there when it happened, to make sure she had access to Byleth first before Dimitri or Claude, and force those new feelings and emotions to flow towards her instead of towards them.

She was deep in consideration of future plans when she looked up at a sound, to see Hubert leaning inside the wagon, intending to pass a tin of camp food to her, complete with a fork. He looked concerned, doubtlessly noting the tear streaks on her face. Edelgard gave him her most triumphant, charming smile in return, adding a saucy wink that Dorothea would shamelessly admire. He smiled in return, and tied the tarp flaps shut.

It wasn’t entirely an act, Edelgard promised herself as she dug into her meal. Let Hubert think so for the moment, which would hold him off against harming Byleth for a time. But the mutual desire was real. The mercenary was certainly attractive, even though she put little care into her appearance, but even that had an appeal. She was a commoner, accustomed to rough living, and held a disdain for nobility that Edelgard shared wholeheartedly. An honest woman, without guile, and a born fighter. And she already knew of the Church’s treachery, but her behavior towards those secrets were almost as if that she did not comprehend it. Of what it meant, and what the downstream implications would be of such truths being revealed. After more consideration, Edelgard reluctantly concluded that this made sense. From a commoner’s perspective, such truths about Crests and Relics were just another noble abstraction. So what if the nobility’s power came from an ancient, nearly extinct race of immortal dragons, or a make-believe Goddess? That meant nothing to commoners, who simply saw power and protection and followed it, like moths around a flame. And the nobles would follow their “Goddess” simply out of naked self-interest. Edelgard felt a flash of doubt at her own high-minded ideals. They could easily be shrugged off as just another noble lie by her enemies, without a history of concrete actions to back them up. Byleth, with her common mercenary cynicism, had shown her that much. It would be up to her to convince her friend--and others like her--of her sincerity. 

Like an icy tendril extending across a leaf, her thoughts slowly progressed to how the powerlessness of the commoners reflected her own current helplessness. She dreamed constantly of the day when she could finally seize the throne and rebel against her Lord Uncle...but it was not really her uncle. “Lord Arundel” was just another pale freak from the depths of the earth who existed to torture and bully her, who had turned her into a weapon, while he soaked up palace life in Enbarr like the parasite that he was. When she tried to think about what had happened to her real uncle...it just made her feel confused. But then she remembered he had been weak. Gone. Dead. And it wasn’t important anyway. There was more than enough to concern her right now. Rhea. Claude. Dimitri. Ferdinand. His father. Seteth. Jeralt.

Byleth.

There were moments in her life when she still felt as if she was back in the dungeons beneath the Imperial palace. With rats, skittering, squeaking, nibbling _rats_ , skulking all around her in the darkness, where she belonged. But by her actions, no matter how ruthless and sordid, she would buy freedom for the Empire. And for the rest of humanity as well.

But one thing at a time. Fighting briefly against her awakened memories, Edelgard sighed at the necessity, then called for Hubert and requested him to bring her a sleeping potion from Professor Manuela. A strong one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've rewritten this chapter again, and again...and I think it's just me having to admit I wrote myself into a corner. Also, that I was tired of writing "unemotional" Byleth, and didn't want to do that for another 100,000 words. 
> 
> And I don't mind Edelgard in canon character in public. But in private...I want to imagine she has more range. C-PTSD victims act out. They just do, because of their traumatic pasts. Canon Edelgard's biggest problem is trying to handle all of that trauma on her own. In CF, I just wish it was reckoned with as something that was more than merely abstract. Claude's upbringing is debilitating to his character, and so is Dimitri's. I wanted to make Edelgard's character just as debilitating, because of course she would endlessly doubt anyone devoted to her. Yet she hardly does so in canon, even after Byleth betrays her.


	16. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did I live and not  
> accept the fact that I will  
> never live again?
> 
> \--
> 
> Byleth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, here's the plotline that manages to derail my entire storyline and pacing. But...I had to.
> 
> CN/TW: Suicide Attempt
> 
> Onward Nabatean soldiers!

Ch 16

Acceptance

Byleth felt restless and giddy when the Knights and students finally returned to Garreg Mach, and currently the three Knights and three Professors in charge of the exercise were giving their reports to the Archbishop and Seteth. While there was no declared victor in the match, there were no long term injuries, and all students had acquitted themselves well with only two outliers. Seteth said he would interview Marianne von Edmund and Dorothea Arnault in the coming week, and Professor Jeralt recommended the intervention of Knight-Auxillary Beatrix in the former case, and summoning the cadets Lady Ingrid Galatea and Lady Lysithea von Ordelia concerning the latter. The High Abbot agreed that those suggestions were reasonable. Knight Byleth was recognized for her efforts in securing the site of the match, and Byleth felt the familiar heat on her face. She awkwardly accepted Lady Rhea’s praise for her service.

When Catherine spoke, Byleth waited for the Holy Knight to condemn her to Lady Rhea’s face, in front of her father and the others. But Catherine said nothing against her, and Byleth felt her tension go away as they exited the interview. It was now her first chance to privately talk with her father in days, ever since her...change. Edelgard had attempted to coach her in her newfound wellspring of feelings as they had escorted the wagons carrying the injured students back to the monastery, over meals and in surreptitious meetings in the wagon bed. Byleth was simply grateful for time near Edelgard, even though their progress was slow and hesitant. Mostly they just talked of other things, dancing around topics they both sensed were too weighty to broach during a simple march back to Garreg Mach. Hubert assisted them with his spells, and Byleth noticed his attitude shift from concealed hostility to...tolerance. Byleth had commented on the change the third day, the day before they reached Garreg Mach. “Her Imperial Highness has been gracious enough to inform me that you are...useful,” Hubert told her. “As she holds you in high regard for the moment, I see there is little need for further antagonizing.” Byleth thought that was a strange comment, but thanked him for the courtesy anyway, and he bowed in return.

The day they arrived at the monastery and town, young Knight of Seiros had wanted to tell her father what had happened, and told her friend the Princess as much. Edelgard had some unreadable emotion on her mostly healed face, then slowly had agreed that was Byleth’s right, but that she should minimize any role the Black Eagles played. Their remaining time together was then spent on crafting a carefully edited version of Byleth’s slow awakening. Before she had to go, Byleth had reached out impulsively to rest a hand on Edelgard’s bandaged shoulder. “Thank you,” she had told her friend, feeling light and strange.

Edelgard’s smooth face had been softly mocking. “It is a hanging offense to lay hands on royalty without their leave…”

Snatching her hand away as it was on fire, Byleth then realized Edelgard was joking with her by her face, and had managed a burst of laughter that somehow came deep within her. Edelgard had laughed as well, but then stopped when she saw the Knight checking herself in confused wonder.

“I knew how to pretend to do that,” she had told Edelgard seriously. “But I think that’s the first time I’ve really done it.” Edelgard had nodded back in solemn recognition. 

Blinking the memory and the swirl of quicksilver feelings away, Byleth was slow to realize that the Knights and Professors were splitting up finally after the week long mission. Hanneman was wandering back to his office, and Manuela had gone to check on the students in the infirmary. With the generous assistance of Flayn and Trips, they would soon be released, but Manuela had insisted on at least a cursory element of monitoring before she would release all of her patients, despite the verbal abuse from some of them. Catherine announced she was starving and headed to the dining hall, while Shamir was almost tackled by a short teen with dark skin who ran up and hugged her. Shamir smiled one of her rare smiles as she tousled the boy’s dark hair as he laughed. Byleth realized that boy must be her apprentice, Cyril.

“Alright, kid, are you going to finally tell me what’s up?” her father demanded behind her, the Golden Deer tabard over his armor newly--and proudly--creased and stained from the time spent in the field.

A tingle of something like combat excitement ran through her. Of course her father knew about her and Edelgard. So much for secrets, she thought ruefully, as she turned around to look up at her father. “Sure, dad. But I think we need to talk with Trips as well. And just in your office.”

Jeralt’s scarred face glowered at his daughter. “This better not have anything to do with your nightly visits to a certain Imperial Princess on the march back. You’re getting unprofessional, Byleth.”

Byleth felt another thrill go through her, this one more disappointing, but she gave her practiced small smile. “It does. But maybe not the way you might think.”

*

It took a while, but Trips was found in the dining hall, enjoying a decent meal with Zarad that was more than just trail rations. Along with Jeralt and Byleth, they were all now seated or lounging in Jeralt’s office.

“Ok, Captain, this joke is bad, even for you. You say Byleth demanded this meeting. Byleth never demands meetings. So you will now tell us what is really going on,” said Zarad as he leaned against a bookshelf near the door, a hand idling scratching his scar.

“Well, I wouldn’t count that out, Zarad. You were out on point most of the time during the march, and Byleth’s behavior has been...odd. Odd for her, I should say. So go ahead, kid. What have you and Edelgard been doing for the past three days?” asked Trips, leaning her short blue hair against her staff tiredly. Her eyes had deep bruises beneath them, due to all the healing she had done recently, and she looked exhausted from her place in front of the desk.

Byleth looked back and forth between her friends from where she stood in the center of the room. Her family, with her father at the core of them, sitting crookedly in his large wooden chair at his desk, his face the unreadable mask that she had quickly and easily learned to mimic as a child. Trips, her healer and stepmother, looking at her with gentle concern, with whom she shared a deep and unshakable bond of trust. Her friend Zarad, who had been a stranger her father had come home with one day, one that had to suffer a thousand insults and indignities for simply existing in Fodlan, but who had accepted her just as easily and quickly as she had accepted him. She felt old familiar feelings of being here close to them, but there was also something new. Like the grateful feeling she had when she was alone with Edelgard. It was expanding slowly inside of her, making her feel warm, somehow including all of them within her in some interesting way, even as they all looked at her expectantly, with varying degrees of impatience or concern.

Without thinking, she blurted out, “I like this.”

“Like what, kid?” yawned Jeralt. It had been a long march and it was late, and the sconces and candles of the office were dim.

She was torn between trying to examine the strange novel feeling, and talking. It was like trying to call out orders in battle while still fighting. Distracted, Byleth waved a gloved hand to indicate the occupants of the room. “This. All of us together. It’s a good feeling. It feels nice.”

Zarad looked to Jeralt, and laughed to ease the tension. “And it’s nice to see you too, Byleth.”

Her stepmother was rising slowly from her chair, her eyes wide. “Wait, Corporal. This might be important. Let me talk to her, guys.” She stood before her stepdaughter, searching her eyes and face for...something. “What’s happening, Byleth? How are you feeling?”

Byleth shrugged her white iron pauldrons in uncertainty. “It feels good. I’m glad we’re all together, I guess. I feel good. And thankful. Everyone here is important to me.”

The chair behind the desk creaked as it was scooted back. Her father was looking at her strangely. Somewhat similar to the way Edelgard looked at her, sometimes, but different. But he was looking at Trips as well. “Bea…”

“Yeah. Ok. We need to,” said Trips shortly, in the professional healer mood Byleth recognized from the dozens of times before. Looking back at Zarad, she mouthed something, because Zarad also looked interested but battle-ready somehow. He nodded shortly but still managed a wink to Byleth as he quickly opened the door and exited.

Confused by the reactions, Byleth looked at her father, saying, “Dad--?”

“It’s ok, Byleth. I’m happy you’re happy. Keep talking, kid, while Trips examines you. It’s just to reassure us that you’re ok. Zarad’s guarding the door to make sure we stay private. When did you start feeling like this?”

“Ok,” she allowed, feeling discomfited to keep talking to her Dad has Trips held the tip of staff on her chest, lost in a spell. The tingles of magic being worked on her made it even harder to talk. “I don’t know how this happened. It started after the battle in Remire. And I felt it more and more here at Garreg Mach.”

“Before or after you became a Knight?” her father asked, his expression intent.

“Um...before. I don’t think being a Knight has anything to do with it. But I feel it around the students. All of them. I really do.”

Her father considered this for a moment, then said, “What about Lady Rhea?”

“What about her? She makes me feel strange. I don’t like it. Even though she seems nice.”

Her father was satisfied with that answer, but still pressed her. “But you feel good around the students? And me and Trips and Zarad?”

Another nod. “Yeah, I do. It’s right. Or easy. I don’t know.”

The unwelcome question came from her father. “And Princess Edelgard? How do you feel about her?”

The very roots of her hair suddenly seemed to be on fire. “Uh...she’s...good,” Byleth said lamely. She would rather die in combat than discuss this with her father.

Her father had the definite beginnings of a Dad-smirk at her expense, but fortunately Trips blinked and came out of her spell at that moment, distracting him. “Jeralt...I felt it. I heard it beat! Whatever you did just then caused it…”

“Heard what beat?” said Byleth, then felt herself tilt forward off-balance. Her combat poise instantly allowed her to recover from a stumble and she shook her head to clear it. “Now I just feel weird…”

“Beatrix, let’s get her to sit down,” ordered Jeralt. Byleth felt the strong hands of her father and the softer, skilled hands of her stepmother ease her into a chair. That eased the dizziness a great deal.

“I’m sorry. Not sure what that was. It felt strange,” Byleth apologized, trying to breathe deeply. Something was wrong with her eyes, making everything look tilted.

Her stepmother was excited, despite her exhaustion, a hand on Byleth’s shoulder as she leaned over her. “Jeralt, you did it! I think she’s learning them, finally…”

“I don’t think I can take the credit, lass,” said her father, kneeling to look Byleth in the eye. “Although I am proud of you, kid. I’m happy for you too. And whatever makes you happy...makes me happy. You know that, right?” 

“Sure, Dad,” Byleth smiled uncertainly at her father, feeling as if his words had blessed her in some unknowable way. Her dizziness slowly abated, and she was even more grateful and warm to him for holding her shoulder in his strong gauntleted hand, keeping her upright. Trips was conducting another impromptu examination of her, but Byleth was used to those by her stepmother. They were oddly comforting now, a ritual of concern and care that she now welcomed, along with the old sensation of the fey buzzing of magic being worked near her.

Trips opened her eyes again, and laid down her staff and knelt by Jeralt, focused entirely on Byleth. “Kid, listen to me carefully. Have you had any dreams recently? Anyone come and talk to you...like...The Goddess?” said the healer, swallowing hard.

Byleth sat straighter in her chair, her strength returning quickly. She shook her head, the blue locks swaying. “No. No dreams since Remire. And I haven’t talked to her in days. Maybe a week.”

Jeralt and Trips looked askance to each other, then back to Byleth. “What did Sothis say to you this last time, kid?” Trips asked reluctantly.

She ignored their looks and concentrated. She concentrated _hard._ Something had happened...during?...or after? The wolf attack. But she wasn’t completely sure. Maybe that was just combat stress. Fatigue. Her father and Trips, even Zarad, had spoken about that with her. That sometimes you remembered things one way after a fight, but it was all made-up in your head.

Frowning, Byleth told her parents, “I’m not sure. It was after the wolves attacked, and I saved Eric. Sothis told me something. That I couldn’t save everyone. That’s it. ‘ _You cannot save them all,’_ she said to me. And I got angry at her. Really angry. She went away after that. I haven’t talked to her since.”

Another glance between the older adults. “You got angry?” asked her father slowly. Byleth nodded. “At the Goddess.” Another nod. “What did feeling angry feel like, kid?”

“White-hot,” said Byleth instantly, confidently. “I just remember feeling white-hot. She was so wrong. It made me want to hit her.”

Trips giggled despite the solemnity of the moment. “You wanted to hit the _Goddess?_ Kid, that’s…” she tried to smother her laughter, and failed.

Jeralt started deeply chuckling as well. “That’s my girl.”

Both of the older adults were laughing, and it made Byleth smile. This wasn’t the mean laughter, but more genuinely happy laughter. Laughter was still strange for her, since there were so many kinds of it. She wondered if an answering laugh was going to bubble up like it had with Edelgard, but nothing happened. Still, it felt nice to just smile and watch them. And hitting the Goddess...well, that _was_ funny.

Looking up after her fit, Trips’ laughter died away, and she nudged Jeralt. “Captain...she’s grinning.”

“So she is,” smiled her father widely, similar to what she felt on her face. “Ok kid. I think it’s time to fess up. Did your spending all that time with the Princess have anything to do with this?”

Her smile to her Dad instantly faded. Byleth looked instead at her boots, finding that much more appealing than talking all of the sudden.

Her father grumbled as all levity faded. “Kid, don’t make me order you…”

“You can’t,” mumbled Byleth.

“What?” said Jeralt, now shocked.

“You can’t,” she repeated, looking up at her father, her face stoic and reserved again. “I’m a Knight of Seiros now. Not a mercenary. Since I have a Crest, that makes me a Holy Knight of Seiros. You can’t order me to do anything.”

“Now wait just a Goddess-damned minute…” started her father as he stood tall over her, his face starting to flush red as glared at his rebellious daughter.

Trips rose from her knees, picking up her staff. “That’s enough, Jeralt. Let me deal with her, ok? Privately.” Byleth felt a sinking feeling in her gut at her stepmother’s assessing expression. She might be able to keep a secret from her father; he’d eventually drop the subject. But keeping a secret from Trips? The young Knight thought she would have better odds keeping the legendary hordes of Almyra at bay all alone. Her stepmother sweetly smiled down at her, never taking her steel grey eyes away from her own. “I think it’s time for some girl talk.”

* 

An hour later, Jeralt and Trips lingered in his office, still wrung out by the intensity of the feelings and revelations discovered this night. Twenty-one years’ worth of emotions in the poor girl, mused Trips, trying to express itself all at once. It was both heart-warming and heart-breaking at the same time. Zarad had helpfully offered to walk a subdued Byleth back to her chambers, after a mostly one sided chat. But she could tell enough from Byleth’s furious blushing and awkward, clipped answers. She and Jeralt looked to each other now to reassure themselves of reality, and acknowledge that they had both witnessed what they saw.

“Trips--Beatrix--I’m inclined to give you the credit, for all your years of hard work,” said Jeralt, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “But was being here at Garreg Mach what we needed to do all along to help her…? What a shitty cosmic joke…”

“Jeralt...I think you might be right, but I also think Byleth was telling the truth to me about Edelgard. She’s not lying about that. She’s still the dopey, honest, straightforward kid we’ve raised all these years. You saw how bad she still is at trying to hide things. Maybe she just had to be attracted to someone of her own age first before she could learn to feel true emotions...but I’m like you. I just wish her first schoolgirl infatuation wasn’t with the Goddess-damned future Empress. Talk about complicated…” Trips said in frustration, ending with a yawn.

Jeralt yawned sympathetically as well, and said, “That’s probably providing cover for her. If it were any other student, Rhea or Seteth would probably intervene. But I don’t think the Church wants to alienate the future leader of the Empire any more than they already have in the past. Especially since Emperor Ionius is expected to take a dirt nap any day now.” He glanced at Trips significantly. “When I hugged her before she left for bed...I couldn’t tell that anything was different. Her heart still isn’t beating regularly.”

Trips nodded sadly. “I don’t know why, Jeralt. And I don’t know if we can trust Rhea’s story about a special ‘healing stone’ either. I’ve never--ever--heard about anything that could do that. But then again, from all the stories you’ve told me about Rhea...maybe she has access to things we don’t. Byleth has always been hard to heal for me for some reason...”

He sat up as a more unpleasant thought came to him. “Could this change in Byleth be due to something else--like Rhea--?”

Trips spread her arms out helplessly. “Who knows? Possibly, but I don’t think so. If Rhea was responsible, you’d think she’d want to be personally around for something like this. You know, just to take credit for it. We both saw how obsessive she still is about Byleth and...her real mother,” Trips added, uncertain of her own emotions about the woman. Jeralt had come to her small village hut near Garreg Mach with nothing but desperation, an infant, and grief twenty-one years ago. She had impressed him enough in examining his child that he had accepted her impulsive offer to follow him into mercenary life. While she had gotten over her childish romance with Jeralt--the man was a much better officer and leader than a partner--Trips still felt a strong sense of parental ownership concerning Byleth. And the Goddess knew, Jeralt had been in no position to take care of an infant back then...

The old man looked almost apologetic to her. “I’m glad you know the truth now, Bea. I wanted to tell you myself, but…”

“Forget it, Captain. Ancient history, like you’re so fond of saying,” said the healer with a sigh. “Another thing it could be is Crest empathy…”

“Crest empathy? What the hell is that?”

“Sometimes there are Crest-bearers who can tell what type of Crest another person has just by looking at them. It was theorized to be a throwback to how close the original ten Elites and five Saints were to each other, when the first nobles of Fodlan started intermarrying after the War of the Ancients. Byleth may have it and not even know it, since the only Crest-bearer she’s known before now has been you. But now...just by being here, and being in contact with so many other Crest-bearing students and Knights...maybe that’s what made her...wake up. And so it’s making her feel an emotional connection with the majority of the students here.”

The Captain eyed her from his chair. “You know what Crest she has, don’t you? But she doesn’t?” A slow, reluctant nod from Trips, which made Jeralt frown. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. My old heart can only stand so many shocks these days.”

“Well, I hope it’s ready for one more. Hanneman and I did some extensive research before the mock battle. But we keep coming up with only one answer. Keep it to yourself for now. Rhea might take it...poorly,” Trips warned.

“No surprise there,” muttered Jeralt, but he nodded at her to continue.

Trips heaved a sigh and said, “We think Byleth has...the Crest of Flames.”

Jeralt stared blankly at her.

The healer magician mentally groaned. _Fighters_. She sighed again and qualified for him. “Jeralt...the Crest of Flames is the Crest of Nemesis. The King of Liberation...who was personally granted his power by the Goddess herself.”

Jeralt bowed his head and looked at his broad arms for a long time. Finally he stirred and rubbed his beard, and said, “So, that would explain the dreams, wouldn’t it? One way...or another.”

*

During the night, another clandestine meeting was held in Garreg Mach monastery, on the third floor of Cathedral, in the Archbishop’s bedchamber.

“Report, Catherine.”

“Yes, Lady Rhea,” the Holy Knight of Seiros answered as she rose from the ground where she had knelt before Archbishop. Lady Rhea stood tall and beautiful before her, her glowing robes and headdress of state traded for a simple white gown that only heightened her ethereal grace.

Catherine stood at ease and began, “Byleth appears to be a strong and capable officer, well equipped to lead and defend her men in the field...although she isn’t afraid of getting in trouble now and again, like me. Heh. But I believe you’re right in your suspicion that she has feelings for the Black Eagles. She intervened twice for them that I could tell. She was seen talking to the Princess right before the mock battle, and afterward she advocated for a student from that House who used a potentially dangerous spell to take down her opponent.”

“Seteth is investigating the matter,” said Rhea quietly. “I will trust his conclusions once he has finished.”

Catherine ran a mailed white gauntlet through her thick blonde hair. “There’s more. I think Byleth has feelings for Edelgard personally. She visited the Princess every chance she could get on the march back to Garreg Mach. And she spent long hours in the hospice wagon where the Princess was recovering. I would have said something to stop it, but Manuela had already given her permission. Some rot about the Princess needing rehabilitation as she healed. I think she’s afraid of offending Edelgard.”

“I see. I suppose it is natural to have lingering feelings for one’s homeland. And Hanneman?”

A snort from Catherine. “He’s acting strange. Strange even for Hanneman, I should say. He’s excited about Byleth for some odd reason, but he kept putting me off the entire march back. Says he needs to do more research.”

“That is wonderful news to hear,” smiled Rhea suddenly, her face becoming radiant.

“What? Why?”

“Do not worry yourself over it, Catherine. I suspect Hanneman will explain it to us in good time. Tell me, what of Jeralt and his companions?”

“Jeralt was impressive in the mock battle. If I didn’t have Thunderbrand even I would hesitate to face him. He looked even stronger than Prince Dimitri if you can believe the reports. The Golden Deer students adore him, but he gets along well with Hanneman and Manuela too. He might be a good long term fit for the position. And Lady Beatrix--Byleth’s stepmother--is a top notch healer. She worked herself to the bone helping to heal all of the students.”

“And the Almyran?”

“Shamir says he’s not bad. Coming from her, that’s high praise. Never thought I would meet an Almyran woodsman in Fodlan. As long as we don’t threaten Jeralt or the rest, I think he’ll stay professional.”

“That is acceptable.” Rhea smiled again. “Thank you for your efforts, Catherine. Too many individuals are turning away from the Word of Seiros during these dark days. It is important for us to evaluate all of those that hold positions of sacred trust.”

Catherine smiled in return and bowed at the praise. “By your will, Lady Rhea. But what about Byleth? Should I reprimand her for her actions?”

“Not at this time, unless the behavior escalates. I would like to know one more thing, however. Has young Byleth behaved in any fashion that you would consider...odd?”

“Now that you mention it...there was one really strange thing that happened at the Holy Pool, before Byleth’s vigil. She swam around in that cold water like it was a bathtime for a kid. She then started saying a bunch of nonsense.”

Rhea stepped closer, her expression piercingly keen. “Tell me all of it. All that you can remember, Catherine.”

The Holy Knight flushed at the attention, and looked away from the intense beauty of Lady Rhea at the stone walls to concentrate better. “Ok...let me think. Byleth had noticed Zanado from the view. She told me and Shamir a battle had been fought there. No, that’s not it. She said it was a massacre.” Rhea made a noise at that, her hand to her mouth, but nodded quickly for Catherine to continue. “Ah...then she said...she said Saint Seiros lived there, and washed off the blood from the attack. Something about...others, with her. She then listed all the Saints, but mentioned some other names, like Aine.” Catherine shook her head in consternation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it too much at the time.”

When she looked back, Lady Rhea’s expression was so heartbroken that Catherine felt alarmed. “Oh, Seteth…Flayn...” she whispered almost inaudibly. The Archbishop drew herself up and nodded to Catherine. “Continue, please, Catherine. Anything else, I beg of you.”

Catherine took a moment to consider. “Um...what did they do? Byleth said they washed off the blood in the Holy Pool, then vowed revenge on Nemesis. Then they founded the Church and the Empire. It was freaky, as if she was telling us some bastardized version of the history of the Empire and the Church. I thought she was just mixed up from nearly freezing to death in the water. We got her out after that, and her skin was like ice. Shamir said she looked like she was in a trance.” Catherine looked up from her narrative to see Archbishop Rhea was no longer paying attention, her gaze unfocused, her face holding a desperate hope.

When the silence had stretched long, Catherine asked quietly, “Lady Rhea? Are you...well?”

Rhea turned her attention back to Catherine with a quick intake of breath. She forced a smile that poorly hid the dark pain in her eyes. “Yes, Catherine. Quite well. If you don’t mind, have Shamir visit me tomorrow at her convenience. I would also like to hear the story from her. In the meantime, please continue with your observations.”

Catherine bowed low again, then hesitated. “Yes, Lady Rhea. Do you need me for...anything else?” said the Holy Knight, her voice low.

Rhea smiled now with gentle love. “Not tonight, my dear one. You may go to your rest. Goddess watch over you.”

Catherine genuflected once more before the Archbishop and left the room, quietly closing the door behind her. In the meantime, the Archbishop’s hands were grasped together so tightly that her knuckles were white, her eyes staring into infinity. Unconsciously, she started humming an ancient, wordless lullaby.

*

Marrianne sat in her room in the dormitory, looking at the empty chair under the chandelier. The room was dark and dim, but there was enough moonlight and starlight coming from the window to make out vague shapes. Besides, lighting a candle seemed too difficult and bothersome. What was the point?

The past few days had been very confusing. Ever since the mock battle, the other students and Knights had been very kind to her. They constantly asked if she needed anything, or how she was feeling. Even Bernadetta had come to check on her, and gave her a small embroidered bird she had made. She had been taken off regular duty for a cadet, so nothing was expected of her and she had nothing to do. Mercedes had been with her almost constantly for the past four days, even to the point where she shared a tent with the kind older girl, even though she wasn’t part of her House. She was so gentle and sweet, constantly inquiring Marianne on what she needed or if she was hungry, or if she would like to pray together to the Goddess for comfort and guidance. Prince Dimitri had been kind and solicitous during the march and evening camps back to the monastery, to the point where Professor Manuela had shooed him away finally. Professor Jeralt hadn’t spoken to her at all since the mock battle, which was a relief until Marianne had figured out why. The blunt healer Knight, Lady Beatrix, had asked her several direct questions over and over again, and Marianne eventually stopped answering her entirely.

These stupid people didn’t understand that they were just making everything worse.

It was more proof that she was an unbearable burden to the world. All of them would have their lives improved if they didn’t have to worry about her all the time. Especially in battle, where someone might get foolishly killed trying to protect her cursed life. And they were only being nice to her out of pity, because she couldn’t do anything for herself. It was easy for them to be sweet to her just to feel good about themselves, and congratulate each other on what a good deed they were doing, even as they talked about her in whispers behind her back.

It would be better for everyone if she just went away.

No one would be hurt by her cursed blood anymore. She wouldn’t have to dream every night about the day her parents went missing and never came home, leaving her all alone in the manor for weeks before the strange armored men came and took her away, forcing her to leave her childhood home behind. She wouldn’t have to stay here at the Officer’s Academy and learn how to only hurt and kill people. And she wouldn’t have to return to her new home with her loquacious, overbearing stepfather, Margrave Edmund, who only cared about turning her into a tidy profit for himself. The thought of an arranged marriage, of being forced to bear children who could be just like her...it was too much. Too horrible. If that was the future she had to look forward to, well, she was glad to be rid of it.

She admitted to herself that she would miss her new animal friends. Like Dorte. And Leo, and Mercer, and Faine, and Windrunner, and Chestnut, and all the rest. She would miss the sweet birds as well, and the silly dogs and cute cats. All of the animals were nice to her and thought in simple terms. She could understand them and they could understand her. But someone else could take care of them and feed them. They would be sad and miss her for a while, but still be fine in the end.

The only thing she worried about now was the Goddess. About...meeting her. She hoped the Goddess would understand that this was about protecting other people, and was about Marianne saving them from herself. In a way, Marianne was sacrificing herself to help others, just as the Goddess had sacrificed herself to save humanity so long ago. Surely the Goddess would understand the necessity of what she had to do. It was a drastic step, but ultimately a brave one. Marianne felt confused at why no one else seemed to understand this.

Except for possibly...Prince Dimitri. He had told her she was not alone, and wondered what he meant by that. But then Marianne remembered the Tragedy. Maybe Prince Dimitri did understand. Or maybe he was just being nice because that’s what everyone expects from a Prince or a King. Yes, that had to be it.

Marianne stared at the dark shadow of the chair for the longest time, replaying her thoughts over and over in her head, feeling comfort in reciting her flaws, recalling her impossible burdens, and listening to the teasing promise of a soothing oblivion that would free her. She felt the night stretch and grow long, dumbly existing without her senses intruding on her thoughts. It might be past midnight by now. Everyone else should be fast asleep. It was time. Marianne briefly wondered for a moment if she should write something. At least to Bernie, and maybe Mercedes and Prince Dimitri. Or even Hilda, or Claude. They had at least tried to talk to her. There was a small capped inkwell on her desk, along with some parchment and quill.

But then again, she had never been very good with words. Or talking about herself with other people. And by the time she was done, words wouldn’t matter, would they?

Marianne stood. It was time, and there was no point in dragging things out. It might be scary and painful at first, but then it would be over. Forever. And she would be at peace. She started feeling curiously enlivened, and excited. Yes, surely this was a sign from the Goddess Herself that she approved of her actions. A final blessing for a poor, cursed soul who could soon rest in the bosom of the Goddess. She stepped over to her bed, thinking about how she could best twist and tie the sheets...

*

“I’m fine,” snapped Felix to his doctor, sitting up against a board to keep his back straight while on the infirmary bed.

“Ah’m fiahn,” mocked Manuela to her patient, dragging out the syllables. She scoffed at him when he gave her a scowl. “Are you a skilled doctor now, trained extensively in the medical arts? You, young man, are about the worst patient I’ve had in six years. You would think that a back injury would teach you something about acting recklessly, but apparently…”

“Good evening, Manuela. Or should I say morning?” said Trips as she rapped the open infirmary door with her staff.

“Heh. Then a good morning to you as well, Beatrix. I was just explaining to our young rebellious Lord Fraldarius that he needs to take it slow and easy for another week, and follow his doctor’s orders,” said Manuela, saying the last through clenched teeth at Felix. The young man grunted and looked away, unimpressed.

“Ah, poor Felix just misses his sword since we took it from him. But don’t worry kid, we’ll get you back into shape,” said Trips lightly, moving to stand by his bed as well. Felix gave no indication he was listening, which Trips ignored. “Let’s see, maybe we can compromise in some way, to keep this active young mind busy.”

“That’s an excellent idea, dearie. Felix does miss his sword training and martial arts, but it will be a week before he can safely do a simple kata,” said Manuela, not-so-discreetly taking a sniff from her box before it vanished under her robes. Trips glared in disapproval, which Manuela ignored.

“None of you are listening to me,” declared Felix, still not facing them. “You don’t know my body, or my limits. I can feel my toes and legs, and move them. Everything works. You shameless old hags are just looking for excuses to grope me.” Both Manuela and Trips ignored that, having heard and seen far worse in their careers.

Trips turned away from Felix’s bed to investigate Manuela’s bookshelf on the far wall. “Let’s see here...I think Felix needs some reading material…” she mused out loud, scanning the spines. Some of them were unmarked, leading to a longer investigation of each volume, but eventually Trips found the object of her search. “Ah! Here we are. Manuela, maybe we should have Felix look at Antistrophe’s _Investigations of The Webs of The Brain_. Maybe that will give him an appreciation of spinal injuries, and the consequences and risks he faces if he doesn’t let himself heal correctly.”

Manuela yawned and stretched languorously. “Perhaps. If he can treat the spines of my books better than his own…”

“Don’t bother,” scoffed Felix in a bitter tone as Trips approached with the volume. “I know what you’re trying to do. So stop.”

“Stop what, Felix? From preventing you dying alone on the battlefield? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you keep pushing everyone away,” said Trips bluntly. She held out the book to him.

“Tch. You don’t know me, then. And doesn’t everyone die alone on the battlefield?”

“You’re right. Thanks for proving my point that you have an active mind, Felix. But you don’t know me either. Consider this another way of fighting your battles,” Trips said, tossing the book onto the bed by his form. “In fact, maybe you would like to learn more…” the healer quickly turned back to the bookshelf, and selected another volume she had seen, returning to place it next to the other one. “This is Erasmus’ _Colloquies and Cantrips, Or How To Make A Boy Polish His Speech and Learn His Anima_. It’s a basic spellbook. You might find it interesting.”

“You really are a witch, aren’t you? Trying to make everyone learn magic,” muttered Felix. He was not quite looking at her, but watching her with peripheral vision.

Trips flinched at that, but held her smile. “You might want to read these. The spellbook at least. It teaches you the basic rules of spellwork. Who knows? Maybe you might have a talent for that as well. I know you’re dedicated to the sword above all else, but then again, there are many types of strength in the world, right? So while you’re on bedrest, perhaps you can give some effort to try to continue to improve, instead of just stewing in your own juices. Just a suggestion...from a shameless old hag.”

Felix said nothing and didn’t move, which Trips figured was acquiescence for him. She turned back to see Manuela outside the door, trying to signal her. She resolutely turned her back and stepped outside the room and closed the door behind her.

The Black Eagle Professor was leaning hard against the door jamb. “Beatrix, thank you so much for your assistance. That boy gets under my skin…”

Trips eyed the other healer. “Manuela, you’re tired. I’m tired. It’s been an exhausting week for both of us. But...try to take care of yourself, too, ok?”

“I’m perfectly--!” Manuela started to raise her voice in protest, then sighed in acquiescence, “ ...fine. You’ve barely known me for a week, and even you are harping on me. I guess it is getting obvious…” 

“Well, take it from someone who’s been there too. It doesn’t end well. Besides,” Trips suddenly grinned without humor, “I don’t want for you to collapse and then Rhea has to give me your job as well.”

Laughing at the jibe, Manuela said, “How wonderful to meet such a kindred spirit, Beatrix. I must say, your assistance during this escapade has been most helpful. I don’t know if I could have managed all of it alone. Would you care for some evening tea in my quarters before bed? I feel we both need to unwind somewhat.”

“That sounds delightful at this moment, Professor,” said the former mercenary, hoping the woman meant what she said by “evening tea.” The two healers began walking from the infirmary towards Manuela’s study upstairs, carefully navigating their way past darkened hallways and worn, uneven paving in the gardens of the monastery outside.

“By the way, Manuela...where did you assign Marianne to sleep tonight? Mercedes’ room?” asked Trips as they slowly walked to the main halls, dimly lit by the few remaining burning sconces.

Manuela peered at her in the gloom. “I thought you were the one taking care of Marianne.”

Both women halted in sudden consternation, and Trips’ face went rigid. In the confusion of bringing all of the students back…what had they done? She quickly spoke. “You don’t think--? She’s in her room?”

“She was with Mercedes--!” protested Manuela instantly. “Surely that sweet girl wouldn’t leave her behind…!” 

“Where’s Mercedes’ room?” said Trips urgently.

“Let me think...it’s near the greenhouse, the furthest one away on that level I believe,” pointed Manuela. With wordless agreement, they turned from the assembly hall, making their way down the steps past the dining hall to the dorms, hurrying their pace but not quite running. Soon they stopped before Mercedes’ closed door, and Trips rapped smartly on it, suddenly not caring who she woke up with her noise.

“Mercedes! Mercedes, open up!” Trips called out loudly.

After a torturous minute that felt like hours, Mercedes opened her door, dressed in a short shift for nighttime and blinking sleepily in the dim light at the two anxious healers. “Oh? Professor Manuela? Ah! And Lady Beatrix? What’s all this about?”

“Mercedes, is Marianne with you?” said Manuela, anxiously cranning her head to try to see behind the Blue Lion student inside the dark room.

In the midst of rubbing her eyes, Mercedes perked up at the question. “Oh, the poor thing. She said she was tired of being near me all the time, and wanted to spend the night in her own room here at the monastery. I couldn’t say no to her--”

“Where is her room?” said Trips urgently, clutching her staff.

“Um...oh! Upstairs, I think…”

Trips took off running immediately, not bothering to waste time with pleasantries, trying to ignore a gnawing sensation of dread. She hurried up the stairs past the greenhouse, but missed a step in the darkness and nearly fell hard onto the hard stone. Cursing, she concentrated her tired willpower briefly on her staff for a quick cantrip. Immediately, the top of her white staff burst into flame, lighting her way but not consuming the enchanted wood of the stave. She came to the top of the stairs and cursed again, because in her haste, she had forgotten to ask Manuela or Mercedes which room belonged to Marianne. She should wait, and ask Manuela...but that pit of dread inside of her would not go away.

Heedlessly, she marched up to the first door she saw in the long hallway and banged on it loudly. “Hey! Open up! This is an emergency!” Trips cried.

Muffled sounds occurred behind the door, but in short order a frazzled Ingrid in night clothing cracked open the door, blinking her eyes at the brightness of Trips’ staff. “Lady Beatrix? What’s happening?”

“Ingrid, where’s Marianne’s room?”

Ingrid blinked again, but said, “Oh, she’s next door to me…”

Trips rushed to the next dorm down, and immediately started banging on the door. “Marianne? Are you in there? Marianne!” She tried the latch, rattling it, but it was securely fastened. “Marianne!” she yelled again, her tone rising, knocking on the door again. Something about the tone of the knocks sounded different. Trips leaned her shoulder against the door and threw weight against it, testing it. It barely moved and only hurt her shoulder. “Marianne, open the door!! That’s an order!” Trips called again, banging her staff against the door.

Silence.

Trips stood there, helplessly clutching her flaming staff, her mind running wild with dreadful possibilities, with horrible images. In helpless frustration, she smashed her staff against the door, sending sparks flying, yelling loudly, “Marianne! Open up!” over and over, not caring that curious students were now opening doors and peering down the hall, trying to see the source of the commotion. After her outburst, Trips pressed her ear against the door, hoping for any sound or movement.

Silence yet again.

Manuela and Mercedes stumbled up the stairs, and Ingrid joined them, crowding around Trips, asking meaningless questions. Trips ignored them and whirled on them, focusing only at the face of Manuela. “We need to break down her door. Now!”

Manuela frowned at that but nodded at the necessity. “Hold on...I should be able to cast something that might work…”

“What’s going on?” demanded Lady Hilda, stomping down the steps from her room up the hall in her pink nightgown. “What’s wrong with Marianne?

Trips ignored her and continued to speak to Manuela. “No! No spells...I think...she’s barricaded herself. The door is blocked, by something. Maybe her desk. I can’t budge it. If we blow it open…”

“Oh dear, I see. How are we going to get in there? I guess we could call Dimitri and Raphael…” said Manuela, looking around at the students’ pale faces.

“Why do we need to get in there so badly?” wondered Hilda, still rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“She might be trying to hurt herself, Hilda,” said Ingrid, suddenly stern and determined. “Fine. I’ll break it down.”

“You’ll what?”

Ingrid stepped away from the door and the professors quickly cleared a path, and the Blue Lion charged directly into the stout wood, shoulder leading. The doorframe shook and cracked, but the sound of wood scraping stone clearly came forth behind it.

Ingrid grunted. “It is blocked! Hilda, help me!”

“Oh, fine. If we really need to...”

Trips and Manuela could do nothing but get out of the way as the two Crest bearing students set themselves against the far wall, then charged quickly against the door. Both door panels splintered and buckled and the hinges bent, but the desk behind them was now clearly seen.

A quick crash and thud, with the ominous sound of a chair being knocked over, came from inside the room.

“Marianne!” yelled Trips, anguished.

“Hilda! Again!” shouted Ingrid, rubbing her shoulder. Hilda was uncharacteristically silent, her face now composed with the same grim determination. They moved backward, and charged at the doors again. This time the doors collapsed completely off their hinges, and the desk blocking the door was rocked backwards enough to allow for a path forward.

Trips dashed forward between them in an instant, her staff crackling as she entered the dim room, climbing past the ruined desk and cluttered debris, including two clay bird statues that had fallen and shattered into pieces on the stone. _Marianne…_

Marianne was on the floor, a white bed sheet tied around her neck and still connected to the chandelier with its broken chain, which had fallen at her feet. A chair was knocked over nearby. She weeping and rubbing her arms, rocking back and forth, curled up into a miserable ball. Trips stood over her for a moment, tears misting her own eyes, and she reached out in uncertainty. “Marianne? I’m so glad you’re ok...no one’s mad, no one’s angry at you...you’re ok kid…” she whispered.

The small young noble raised her face. “You should have left me alone,” she cried out between sobs, her voice hoarse.

Others were now entering the room, slowly. Trips shoved her staff into the hands of Professor Manuela and bent down to kneel next to Marianne, who had returned to utter despondency.

“Marianne? Listen to me. Marianne,” she said firmly through her own tears, grabbing the girl’s shoulder. “I know what you’re going through. Look at me. Please.”

“No you don’t! You’re wrong...no one does,” cried Marianne, shrinking away from the other woman’s touch.

Trips decided to focus on any potential injury. Reaching behind the crying girl, she worked quickly to untie the bedsheet from her neck, tossing it aside and running gentle fingers across the girl’s chaffed and bruised neck. Looking behind her, she firmly caught Manuela’s eye, who nodded and turned to begin ushering students from the doorway, whispering to all of them in the most soothing voice she could manage. She carried Trips’ flaming staff with her, and soon Marianne and Trips were left in the dim shadows of a room, filled with broken things.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allow me to blame Reddit user Vetsa for the imagery concerning Marianne. Please check out their art.
> 
> So yeah, this will be dealt with. I have to. I'm a psychologist and a teacher, my blood compels me.


	17. Sequiter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past is such a curious creature,  
> To look her in the face  
> A transport may reward us,  
> Or a disgrace.
> 
> Unarmed if any meet her,  
> I charge them, fly !  
> Her rusty ammunition  
> Might yet reply !
> 
> ― Emily Dickinson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These interactions are free to a good home!

Ch 17

Sequitur

Bernadetta woke early before dawn, as always. She wanted to savor every moment alone that she could steal, here at the Academy. It was so nice to finally be back in her room, after all that awful marching and fighting.

Humming an aimless tune, she went about her daily morning ritual, lighting the candles first, then washing herself in the water basin at her armoire, before finally dressing in a fresh uniform and curling up on her bed with a good book of poetry. Well, maybe ‘good’ was relative in this case; Bernadetta found herself frowning at a lot of the rhymes, finding them mawkish, and she hastily crossed them out and wrote new ones in the margins with her inkwell and quill. Maybe it was a book from the library, but honestly, people would thank her for her efforts later, even if they did not know who had done it.

She blinked to realize she had rewritten an entire poem on one page. Hm. That was probably excessive. Now she needed to wait and let the ink dry a bit. She set the open book aside and recapped her inkwell, and turned to regard her room, her sanctum. What could she do next in the short amount of precious time she had? Oh! She had promised Mr. Bernie-Bear that she would sew him a new jacket. It was spring now, so he didn’t need his woolen sweater anymore. Let’s see...now she just needed to work on a design, and pick out the right scraps of cloth from her collection in her basket. Still humming, completely secure and safe in her domain, Bernadetta went about her new task with relish, becoming utterly absorbed with her precious scissors, ruler, needles and thread. She ignored the fact that sunshafts were now slowly moving across the room, and it was now midmorning.

A single, sharp rap sounded against her door. Bernadetta froze in incandescent terror at the intrusion, hoping against hope that the intruder would go away.

The sound repeated, louder this time.

Oh, no. It was probably Lady Edelgard, coming to get her for morning classes. Bernadetta feared leaving her room, dreading being exposed to stares and forced interactions. But she was afraid of Lady Edelgard even more. Not even daring to breathe a sigh of disappointment, she put down her things and timidly walked to the door from her desk, preparing herself for a lecture. After another moment to steel her nerves, she opened the door.

Unexpectedly, a tall, pale, dark-haired apparition dressed in a black uniform loomed before her.

“Ah! Nosferatu! I--I t-thought you could only come out at night!” yelped Bernadetta, cowering backward.

“I do agree that moonlight suits my features better,” said Hubert, torn between annoyance and amusement as he stared down at his short classmate. Amusement won out as he coldly smiled. “Please come with me, Bernadetta. You may follow at a distance if you wish.”

Oh, it was only Hubert...but he looked like one, didn’t he? Maybe he really was! It made perfect sense! “Follow--y-you? N-no! I don’t want to become one! I’m not ready to accept the Dark Gift! I like the taste of regular food!” wailed Bernadetta, frantic at the prospect of looking like Hubert.

Another chilling smile. “No need to persist with your delusions. I am merely summoning you to come with the rest of the students to the cathedral. Lady Rhea is holding a prayer service, and your attendance is mandatory...along with my own,” sighed Hubert with a grimace.

Bernadetta snapped out of her terrified imaginings at that. “What? P-prayer service? But it’s not Goddess Day. Is it?” she asked uncertainly.

Hubert said smoothly, “We are praying for the healing of your friend from the Golden Deer house, Lady Marianne von Edmund. She did something quite drastic during the night, and attempted to harm herself. Amateurish work, really, but tragic all the same. What could be a more devastating blow to one’s self-regard than failing to kill yourself?”

“Kill...oh no, oh no! Poor Marianne...oh no...she’s not hurt, is she? I mean…” said Bernadetta anxiously, her fingers twisting her purple hair into tangles.

“She is resting comfortably in the infirmary. Perhaps you might be allowed to visit her eventually. But for now, life goes on for the rest of us poor mortals. Please attend, and join the rest of us. The service is starting shortly.”

*

While Rhea was giving her sermon, Seteth, the Professors, and the leaders of the Knights faced a crisis in the Archbishops’ throne room.

Trips and Manuela were miserable, each of the physicians feeling they had failed, albeit in different ways. Mercedes was there as well, her eyes red but at least no longer inconsolable with guilt. The others were grimly waiting for Seteth to speak, as he stood with his back to them, facing the stained glass windows behind the Holy Seat, gathering his own thoughts.

Byleth felt confused at Marianne’s actions. She couldn’t understand how someone could feel so bad on the inside that they would just...try to end it. Why bother to seek out death, when it could find you at any moment? Why rush towards it, when it always claimed everyone? At the same time, with her newfound emotions, she could see how some people might view their life as unbearable. Since sharing that first emotional evening with Edelgard, Byleth had glimpsed how much sadness and anger could overwhelm someone. She felt another unwelcome insight come to her, as she tried to consider the consequences, and what Trips and Manuela were now facing. How could you convince someone else to live?

“Lord Seteth...it is my fault. I was foolish, and thought she was doing better. If only I wasn’t so scatterbrained,” said a still upset Mercedes, quietly sniffing.

“Please stop, my child. There is no fault here, except perhaps my own. I suspected she was unsuited for it, yet I allowed her to participate in the first mock battle anyway. That was thoughtless of me,” said Seteth, turning to face the group.

“She’s a liability,” said Jeralt with a severe frown. Byleth winced at her father’s bald statement but it was too true at the moment.

“Then it is our duty to make certain she is not one,” said Seteth, equally severe. “Normally, I would grant a medical leave of absence for such a student, and enroll them in next year’s class. However, Margrave Edmund is a significant patron of the Church, and I do not wish to offend him. I will compose a letter to him explaining the situation at once.”

Alois frowned, his boisterous personality subdued for once. “That poor girl. I can’t understand what drove her to such an extreme act.”

“And it’s going to be hard to trust her from now on,” added Shamir from where she leaned on a pillar, looking towards Mercedes meaningfully. “She used her fellow student’s kindness against her. She waited days for this opportunity.”

Her stepmom stepped forward to the Abbot, her staff tapping the ground. “It’s my fault, Lord Seteth. I became distracted while she was in my care. Now she’s even worse off than before,” said Trips, miserably exhausted. She had been up the entire night, helping Manuela monitor the young noblewoman, who had been so distraught that Manuela eventually had given her a sleeping potion to force her to rest. Byleth worriedly hoped her stepmother would remember to care for herself as well as her patients.

Seteth raised a hand before him. “Please, Lady Beatrix. As I have said, no one is at fault for Marianne’s actions. Recriminations serve no purpose now. Let us focus our energy instead on finding the best path forward for her.”

“Maybe we can cheer her up by throwing a party! Cook her a favorite meal!” suggested Alois eagerly.

“Dear Alois, your heart is in the right place but I’m afraid that won’t do much for poor Marianne’s melancholy. Unfortunately, it might make it worse,” explained Manuela with a sigh.

Catherine folded her arms with an armored clink. “I’ve already got four Knights assigned to watching her on a rotating schedule. How long is this going to take? We’re short handed as it is, and we can’t baby-sit her forever.”

“It’s going to take as long as it needs to,” Trips said, glaring at the younger woman. “She’s a sick young woman, and sick people don’t think right all the time. Manuela and I will come up with something.”

“Seteth,” Jeralt said, stepping forward slightly to the High Abbot. “Could Rhea, or Flayn--?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Seteth, frowning deeply at her father. “The mind, like the webs and threads of the body, is resistant to healing by any known method of conjuration. To even attempt to do so might cause great damage.” Seteth paused, looking around the room, focusing on Hanneman who was deep in consideration at the far side of the room. “Professor Hanneman? You have been...uncharacteristically silent. Do you have anything you wish to say?”

“Yes...I believe I do,” said Hanneman slowly. Looking up, he addressed the group. “Lady Marianne might possibly be suffering due to Crest hysteria,” he said, looking meaningfully at Seteth. “In the past, young noblewomen of marriagable age have acted out in similar ways, some because they did in fact have a Crest, while others did so because they did not.”

“Ah,” Seteth nodded. “I believe I see your meaning, Professor. Marianne feels the way she does because of her status.” 

“Precisely. And if I recall correctly, Margrave Edmund was but recently appointed to the nobility?”

Seteth nodded again in affirmation. “That is true. He was once a wealthy merchant who contributed much needed funds for the reconstruction repairs of Fodlans’ Locket. The Leicester Lords unanimously voted for his accession to their ranks just a few years past.”

“Then the underlying cause of Lady Marianne’s melancholy is clear,” said Hanneman, spreading his arms to the group. “Lady Marianne is simply stressed by the new expectations placed upon her. She believes herself unworthy, or perhaps unable, of fulfilling them. And she is currently unequipped to confront them. We must convince her that she can do so, or can find another path that suits her.”

“Easier said than done,” said Manuela bitterly, tapping her wand against her hand restlessly.

“We could toss her into the river,” muttered Zarad.

Jeralt sighed and regarded his corporal, lounging in the shadows by the door. “Zarad, you’re not in Almyra anymore. We don’t do that here.”

“But it is a simple solution, Captain. If she wants to live, she will swim to shore and we can care for her. If she does not, she will not come up,” shrugged the woodsman.

Shamir surprisingly chuckled. “You’ll find that Fodlanders aren’t big on pragmatism.”

“Marianne is sick, Zarad. I wouldn’t throw you in the river just because you had an arrow in your belly,” snapped Trips at her friend. “I would find a way to cut it out without you bleeding all over me. This is the same thing, just different.” She grew angrier at seeing him smirk and wag his head at her. “Shut up. You know what I mean…”

“A useful insight, Lady Beatrix” interjected Seteth, pacing behind the throne. “Diseases of the mind and spirit are no different from a disease of the body. So my sister has taught me over the years. But the treatment can be difficult, because the patient can be uncooperative.” He looked at Trips and Manuela. “When is Lady Marianne likely to wake?”

The two healers glanced at each other. “Probably sometime later this evening,” said Trips. “We dosed her pretty good.”

“I want to see her!” said Mercedes spoke up firmly, then blushed beneath her blonde hair as she looked down in shame. “I’m sorry...I am...if that is acceptable and I have your permission…but she’s such a sweet, gentle person. We’ve prayed to the Goddess together, and she’s a true believer, I just know it. I think of her as a friend.”

“I don’t believe anyone finds that objectionable, Mercedes,” smiled the High Abbot gently. “But we must defer to those with the most medical expertise among us, such Professor Manuela and Lady Beatrix.”

“Mercedes, dear, you might be...onto something,” said Manuela, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “My Lord Abbot, I believe we have erred in our treatment of poor Marianne. We left her with nothing to do, by pulling her off of active duty. Instead, I believe we should fill her time with duties that she prefers, to help include her back into normal life and living. A regular routine is just what the poor thing needs. Perhaps we could train her to be an acolyte? Or assign her to the choir...err, regardless of her, ah, enthusiasm?”

“Oh no! She wouldn’t like that,” Mercedes told the Professor hurriedly. “She’d much prefer to help behind the scenes. And...I know that she loves animals so dearly. She knows the names of every horse and pegasus in the stables.”

“So assign her stable duty. Permanently,” said Shamir shortly.

Byleth saw her stepmother’s eyes turn shrewd. “Shamir, that might not be a bad idea. And I think this underscores Manuela’s point. I don’t think Marianne wants to see...us,” said Trips, vaguely waving her hand across the room to indicate the Knights. “She needs friends at this point. People her own age, like Mercedes, who know her better than we do.”

“Lady Bernadetta is a friend of Marianne’s,” said Byleth firmly, surprising the group. “A good friend. She’ll want to meet her. So will Claude and the other Golden Deer.”

“Bernadetta? That timid little mouse archer?” laughed Catherine.

“Just the timid little mouse archer that took me down in the mock battle,” retorted Jeralt. Catherine gave him a mock salute as he shook his head. He turned to Trips. “You have a possible guess when she can be reintegrated back into classes?”

Manuela and Trips looked at each other speculatively. “A week--?” suggested Manuela.

Trips nodded, her eyes distant. “Maybe two. But no longer than that, Captain. We need to get her past this event.”

The omnipresent wand in Manuela’s hand suddenly whipped to the stone bas-relief wall with a crack, and the former diva sweetly addressed the startled group by saying, “And let there be no more jokes or misunderstandings at the expense of our dear students. I think these poor things need to be shown the courtesy and camaraderie one would expect from any fellow officer on the field, despite their backgrounds or dispositions. Little pitchers have big ears, as my mother used to say.” 

Seteth nodded at that and looked at all the Knights. “This is true. There will undoubtedly be talk concerning Lady Marianne. I trust all of you to limit such talk to respectful and pious well-wishes regarding her health...regardless of any temptations otherwise,” said the stern Abbot, and Byleth almost heard her father speaking through this man. Seteth obviously did not expect his orders to be fully followed, but he was warning against egregious displays in front of the lower ranks. After a moment’s thought, Byleth nodded. Marianne was still a soldier, an officer. She would have to work doubly hard to earn trust now, and she would need the support of her Professors and the Knights to earn a chance for that basic respect.

*

The Golden Deer House quickly gathered in their homeroom after the prayer service.

Claude was kicking himself mentally over and over about Marianne, as he stood apart from the group. He prided himself on his observant nature, but he had completely missed the signs in retrospect. It was so obvious that Marianne had been suffering. Yet he had done nothing to help her, thinking her trouble would resolve itself on its own. And it almost did.

Hilda was quietly thoughtful as she sat near him, twisting her bracelets around her wrists over and over. Lorenz was conversing in whispers with Leonie and Ignatz, all of their faces marred by frowns. Raphael was being lectured by a stern Lysithea, which would have been comical if the subject wasn’t so serious. The poor guy still had a hard time understanding what was wrong with Marianne.

A further depressing thought entered Claude’s head. This event made the entire Golden Deer House’s reputation suffer, especially after they had nearly won the mock battle. He could already imagine Hubert and Edelgard not-so-subtly spreading “rumours” about his leadership. The Blue Lions would also shake their heads about the lack of noble chivalry in the Alliance. Then he mentally kicked himself for taking his focus off Marianne. Somehow, they had to find a way to help her without making her feel worse. Even if they hadn’t known each other for very long...she was still a Golden Deer. And it was his responsibility….

“Claude...a florin for your thoughts,” said Hilda, still wringing her bracelets, bringing him out of his musings.

The House Leader for the Golden Deer turned around, noticing all eyes upon him, with all conversation ceased. Time to play-act as a leader, but he was not feeling capable of scheming his way out of this one.

He visibly struggled for something to say, but words and platitudes seemed empty and useless. Finally, he sighed and said, “I’m sorry, gang. I’m a bad leader. I didn’t watch out for her enough…”

“Claude. Shut up. You’re a perfectly acceptable leader, as long as you listen to me,” snapped Lysithea rudely, shocking him out of his dark thoughts. “We need to help Marianne, but without hurting her more. So we don’t need you getting her malaise as well.”

“If there’s anyone you should blame, Claude, it’s me,” said a pensive, downcast Leonie, her hands balled into fists. “I...lost my temper with her. Earlier this month, when we were on stable duty. I’m sorry, but I didn’t understand how bad she felt about herself…” the older teen trailed off.

“We need to give her more support, but I don’t think she needs to train or fight right now,” stuttered Ignatz, blushing under his spectacles as the others regarded him. “Maybe she could be a company healer, or a stablemaster. She’s like me, because she doesn’t like being on the front lines. But an army needs all sorts of officers…”

Hilda perked up at that suggestion. “Wow...Ignatz, that’s a great idea! She could be our supply officer or something!”

“She is good with sums and figures,” said Lysithea, frowning as the small magician considered it. “It makes sense, since her father is a wealthy noble. I’ve heard that he lends money to other nobles all across Fodlan.”

Lorenz saw an invitation to contribute to the discussion. “Margrave Edmund may be _nouveau riche_ , but he has been a worthy addition to the ranks of the Five Great Families,” Lorenz said with poor grace. “Lady Marianne must find her elevated status overwhelming. But she is such a graceful and elegant creature, and quite the suitable match for any noble…”

“Lorenz, please shut up before I murder you,” sang Hilda sweetly, standing up quickly.

“You beat me to it,” said a glowering and fey Lysithia, glaring up at the tall form of an oblivious Lorenz.

Claude felt compelled to play peacemaker, just because Lorenz’s goodwill might prevent another assassination attempt from his father. “C’mon, guys, he was just trying to be nice in his own way…”

Despite his best efforts, they were soon starting to bicker again. Leonie was siding with Lorenz, surprisingly, arguing that someone needed to take care of Marianne. Soon Hilda’s blood was up and she was quarreling with them both. She had always made an effort to include Marianne into the group, despite the shy girl’s reticence, and Claude vaguely remembered she had been determined to make her new friend “popular.” Claude could do nothing but sigh, and prepared himself for a long wait for another opportunity to speak. Then noticed that Ignatz was quietly moving over to him, which was a surprise in itself. The bespectacled merchant’s son was almost as shy and unassuming as Marianne.

“Ignatz, buddy, if you’ve got any ideas, I need them now,” said Claude, rolling his eyes at his arguing classmates.

“I don’t know if it will help, Claude,” said Ignatz, holding a hand behind his blonde head and looking away. “I’m sorry if it doesn’t…”

“Let’s hear it anyway, Iggy.”

“Um...well...I think Marianne feels trapped. She’s always had this hunted expression on her face, like there’s something constantly watching her. And she’s always convinced that she’s cursed somehow, so...maybe that’s why she constantly prays to the Goddess to watch over her. I remember she was certain when you and the others disappeared last week during the bandit attack that it was all her fault. Hilda and I could barely get her to take care of herself, and we tried our best but...we couldn’t reassure her otherwise. Even after you showed up, she just told us it would happen again.”

Claude absorbed the words thoughtfully. Whatever other faults he had, Ignatz was extremely perceptive. He said to the shorter man, “She told me before that she’s bad luck. I thought it sounded like just another troubled noble past. Didn’t her parents die or something?”

“Claude,” said Ignatz solemnly, so serious it surprised his House Leader. “Her parents vanished, years ago. Completely. No bodies, no warning. They left no will or guardian for her. The Margrave is a distant third cousin to her, according to my parents. Something horrible must have happened to them, and to her as well. Until we understand why she thinks she is cursed...I….um...well, I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t believe she will get any better.”

The Golden Deer House Leader nodded thoughtfully at that. Intuitively, he knew that Ignatz was probably right. So it wasn’t just a troubled noble past, and there was an underlying cause for Marianne’s behavior. Ok. It was taking a little longer than normal, but his brain was finally kicking itself awake again, and now he had the rudiments of a plan. “Lysithea!” he called out to the group.

The short albino child turned away from a triumphantly smug Leonie, still furious by whatever the commoner had said. “What is it, Claude?” she demanded.

“Come over here,” Claude beckoned. “Ignatz needs to tell you something.”

With some more stuttering and apologies, Ignatz repeated his theory to Lysithea. To the relief of both young men, she was soon lost in thought. “Cursed?” she muttered to herself. “There are legends of cursed weapons and objects, of course. Then there’s the voodoo magic of Morfis, and the shamanastic teachings in Almyra. And I’ve heard that Relics can curse their wielders if they don't at least have a matching Crest themselves. But I'm not familiar with a general curse of misfortune and bad luck that affects only others. Maybe it can be something to look up in the library," she told Claude.

"I think the three of us can focus on that," nodded Claude to Ignatz and Lysithea, and he was gratified to see their enthusiasm in return. "In the meantime...Hilda! Stop arguing and get over here! The rest of you too!" Slowly the group calmed themselves enough to approach and listen to their House Leader.

Claude studied the faces around him for a long moment, then announced without a smile, "All right. A teammate of ours just happens to be sick, right? So we're going to make her better, and treat her no differently than we have before...except maybe a little nicer, a little more like we would like to be treated ourselves," he said with a nod to Leonie. She flushed but nodded back evenly. "Lysithea, Ignatz, and I will do some reading in the library on our own to try and help her. Hilda, I'm putting you and Lorenz on point to spend time with Marianne, any time the healers don't chase you out of the room, and asked to be informed about whatever we can do to help out. Leonie and Raphael, maybe with you can get with some of the monastery staff and see if you can clean and repair her room, if they're not doing it already. We don't want to give her any more awful reminders about last night." He was grateful to see affirming nods all around him. Maybe he could start taking this leadership role a bit more seriously...

*

Hanneman bustled into the Blue Lion homeroom with Mercedes trailing behind him, rubbing his mustache absently with one silk gloved hand, still abstracted over Marianne's condition. It was surely related to her Crest, but a condition of young Marianne's enrollment into the Academy had been a stipulation asking for no investigation into her Crest status. Most unusual. There were only several possibilities. One was that some parents did not want a multitude of suitors distracting their young charges while studying at the Academy. That could be distracting, or more likely, the parents already had a match in mind. He would have to ponder this more…

“Professor!” Prince Dimitri and his classmates crowded around him as soon as he entered the room. “Please tell us at once of anything we can do for poor Lady Marianne! I am afraid Archbishop Rhea was rather short on specifics, although we are all earnestly praying for her swift recovery,” declared the young Prince, his smooth face lined with worry.

“Professor Manuela and Lady Beatrix have the situation well in hand, young man,” responded Hanneman, his face softening as he considered the young Faerghus Prince. A good boy, if entirely a product of the Crest system. Indeed, considering his personal history, he had come far and would go even further. He peered around to see the three female Blue Lions standing nearby, with varying expressions of concern. A glance at the not-so-innocent Sylvain and the too-innocent Ashe nearby decided him on his course of action. “This may sound odd, but I believe it is for the best, and may make for a good teaching moment. My Lord Prince, you and the rest of the gentlemen of your class may be seated. Lady Ingrid, Lady Annette, and Miss...Martritz. Please join me privately for a moment, because I believe you may be the best suited to aid Lady Marianne going forward.”

Confused, the Blue Lion Class did as he asked, although he could see Sylvain lounging by the door as he closed it behind him. Ah well, he could only do so much. Outside the classroom, he quietly told the three women of the Blue Lion House, “The reason I called the three of you here is because I believe you can best explain, and help your classmates understand, exactly what Lady Marianne is experiencing. Lady...forgive me, Miss B--I mean Martritz. Please go on and tell your classmates,” he nodded to Mercedes.

The noble turned commoner looked reticent, but did as she was asked to a concerned Annette and an attentive Ingrid. “Ingrid...Annie. I think the Professor may be right. Marie is feeling anxious about her future...in a way only the three of us can understand,” the older woman said quietly to her classmates.

Ingrid turned her face away but not quite. “She was going to be married off like chattel, wasn’t she?” she said tightly.

“No! Really? That’s every kind of awful! I mean...I’ve heard about it happening...but…” said Annette helplessly, looking from face to face.

Mercedes sighed and closed her eyes. “She’s the right age. In the Empire, she might even be considered old for it.”

Annette made a gagging sound. “And this is my barf-face, Mercie…”

“Even in the Kingdom, too,” said Ingrid in a cold tone, her eyes far away. “Even in the Alliance. We’re not considered as people, if we have a Crest. We’re just...things. Livestock.”

“But you are all people,” said Hanneman sternly to the young women, determined to put an end to such self-defeating notions. “People with dreams, that are just as worthy as any other individual. And...despite my good intentions...well, I know that I am ill-equipped to reassure you of my sincerity, but please listen. I urge each of you to find your own happiness first, and society’s happiness second. I once had someone close to me...do what she felt was her duty to the family. And it did not go well. Not at all,” he ended in sad reflection. 

“Professor Hanneman, that’s very sweet of you to tell us,” said Mercedes with a smile. “For myself, I feel I can trust you. You reached out to us first, because you respected our own thoughts on the matter. That does mean something.”

“Um, yeah! Just what Mercie said! You’re the greatest, Professor Hanneman, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You always try to think things through, just like I do!” exclaimed Annette, but then she blinked to herself. She said to herself excitedly, “Oh wow, that would make a great song…”

“Annette, please try to focus,” said Ingrid primly, but even in the young Lady Knight’s eyes there was guarded respect that gratified the ex-noble somewhat. “Professor, this does mean something. And thank you for coming to us first...without Sylvain blathering on, or Felix spitting at us, or Prince Dimitri being overbearingly concerned. But what should we say to our fellow classmates?”

“That is up to you, Lady Ingrid,” said Hanneman as he inclined his head. “I am not leaving the matter entirely in your hands. I am available for any poor advice I can give. But it was my thought that you could use this frightening event and make something positive of it. Lady Marianne does need care and support...but primarily, I believe she needs understanding. Something that all of us should strive for, and be mindful of concerning others. That is why I wished to talk to the three of you first. But I do not wish to direct your ideas on the matter. You know your own classmates and House Leader far better than I do.”

“We do,” nodded Ingrid confidently, smiling widely now. “Thank you for this talk, Professor. I’ll handle Sylvain and Felix, Mercedes can handle Dimitri and Ashe, and Annette can handle Dedue by demanding more cooking lessons. We’ll make them understand what we have to go through...whether they want to or not.”

*

At Edelgard’s request, the Black Eagle House was using the unanticipated free time this morning to review the mock battle. Edelgard was only mildly put out that the Church had denied the Black Eagles a victory. Byleth had explained to her it was a necessary compromise, especially since Dorothea was now being considered for a conduct review. And ultimately, such practice bouts were soon going to be meaningless anyway…

Edelgard made sure to see that Bernadetta, Petra, and Dorothea were singled out for praise, which was accepted with various degrees of grace. Ferdinand was appropriately chastened by his performance, and bowed low in apology to Edelgard for his actions. Caspar was difficult and required more vigorous coaching, but eventually he agreed that there were times it was better to be quiet and less reckless on the battlefield, especially after Linhardt complained that their argument was waking him up. Edelgard chose to ignore the narcoleptic mage and his conduct for now; Linhardt was too intelligent and slippery beyond words when it came to defying authority. Soft power was more likely to work with him rather than direct confrontation.

She was so absorbed in reviewing her classmates’ future training routines, as well as her own plans and contingencies, that she was surprised to witness Bernadetta speak out of her own volition when there was a pause in their study. “Lady Edelgard! Um...forgive me, but please...I have to know! What are we going to do for Marianne?”

Edelgard blinked, recalling the reason for the time-wasting prayer service this morning. “I’m afraid we can do nothing for her at the moment, Bernadetta. She will have to find the strength to live on her own. I believe that is for the best, because we cannot be there for her all the time. Professor Manuela is quite experienced and skilled, and we must trust in her ability to bring about a cure.”

“Such a waste,” said Petra softly. “Is Marianne feeling shamed by something? If so, I can be her second for the next attempt, so that she may complete the atonement to her ancestors…”

“Not quite, my dear Brigid Princess,” said Hubert, smiling widely at the dark image. “Marianne is merely suffering an imbalance of humours. She is a melancholic individual, meaning that she has too much of the black bile flowing through her veins, and simply cannot overcome her own morose nature.”

“Oh, perfectly said, Hubie, for someone who has never missed a meal in his life!” gasped Dorothea sarcastically. Her lovely face then scowled. “Don’t listen to his rubbish, Petra. You’d be amazed how much better someone feels about life when they think they have a future worth living for!”

“Another argument? All of you are fools…” breathed Linhardt from his seat as he stretched out his arms with his head down on a book. Edelgard could not reprimand him since she agreed wholeheartedly.

“Lady Marianne has many expectations on her, as a member of the nobility,” added Ferdinand, winding himself up for a speech. “It is obvious she just needs some expert advice on how to be a worthy noble. When I am done with classes, I will be happy to go with you, Bernadetta, to visit her…”

That was entirely too much. “Enough, Ferdinand! I have told you earlier I am very nearly done with you embarassing the Black Eagle House!” commanded Edelgard. This was the situation she had precisely hoped to avoid, with her House becoming sidetracked by trivia once more. Her poltiical rival glared at her stubbornly, but she growled to him, “I do not wish for the suicide of that poor girl to be traced back to your unsolicited ‘expert’ advice…”

“Suicide is bad! Don’t say that word! It’s awful and no one should think about it!” yelped Bernadetta, her purple bangs now in knots from constant, anxious twisting and pulling.

“Hey yeah! For once Bernadetta is right! We don’t want to catch suicide from Marianne! Agh! I’m thinking about it myself now! What’s the cure?” yelled Caspar, looking frantically about and clutching his head.

“Quiet!” demanded Edelgard at the forefront of the classroom, and fortunately Bernadetta and Caspar subsided enough to give her their attention. She sternly lectured her classmates once more, “The cure is to have a reason to live and the will to see it through, the same as any dream. As I said before, the situation is out of our hands, and I would like for it to remain so. We may pray to the Goddess or think well of the poor creature, but we cannot live her life for her. Only she can do that.”

“Oh, very well said, Your Imperial Highness! Please excuse my tardiness, darlings,” said Professor Manuela, sweeping into the room in her voluptuous, revealing white robes. A flick of her wand over her shoulder caused the doors to spontaneously shut behind her as she came to stand beside Edelgard to address the class. “We are indeed doing something of the sort for our patient. In a few days, perhaps, we hope to reintegrate her back into a normal, happy routine, where everyone can see her and be her friend. All that we ask is that you be respectful of boundaries, and be the same courteous little angels you always are while speaking with her. If anyone is still confused about how best to approach your fellow student, please speak with me after class. Any questions? How wonderful! Then let us…”

“Excuse me, Professor Manuela?” Linhardt was alert, awake, and raising his hand.

“Oh my. Linhardt is asking a question in class! Someone make a note of this historic event, please,” smiled the Professor wickedly. Caspar and Petra began writing studiously in their notebooks.

Linhardt lazily blinked at his teacher’s sarcasm, and said, “Well, it may be more of a comment than a question, but since it’s making you so happy, I’ll do so. What is the source of Lady Marianne’s depression? Do you know?”

“We have theories we’re not at liberty to discuss…” started the Professor, her eyes narrowing at the blase Linhardt.

“So it is her Crest that is making her unhappy, right? Her secret Crest? The one no one is allowed to talk about here at school?”

“Linhardt, please ask no more questions in class. Ever,” said the Professor, with an angry twist and swirl of her robes.

“Well now. How delightful,” smiled Linhardt as he lowered his head once more on his pillow, an open spellbook with the pages covered in runes. In the space of two breaths he was lightly snoring once more.

As she resumed her seat in the front row by Hubert, Edelgard’s heart was pounding at the revelation she just heard. A swift look at her tall retainer was confirmed by a nod. He knew as well. For once, Edelgard blessed Linhardt’s behavior and intellect. A beautiful young noble nearly committing suicide at Garreg Mach was uncommon, but not remarkable. But a beautiful young noble nearly committing suicide, simply because of her Crest? This was a golden opportunity to discredit and embarrass the nobility and the Church. Utterly golden.

At once Edelgard began reviewing everything she knew of Margrave Edmund and his ward, Lady Marianne, as Professor Manuela started the lessons.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers may note that I make Hanneman and Manuela slightly competent at their jobs.
> 
> And why not?


	18. Confessional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we two lovers shall not sit afar,  
> Critics of nature, but the joyous sea  
> Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star  
> Shoot arrows at our pleasure! We shall be  
> Part of the mighty universal whole,  
> And through all Aeons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul!  
> We shall be notes in that great Symphony  
> Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,  
> And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be  
> One with our heart, the stealthy creeping years  
> Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,  
> The Universe itself shall be our Immortality!
> 
> \--
> 
> Wilde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kept growing, and growing....

Ch 18 

Confessional

Trips was still exhausted, but a nap in her quarters while the students were in class had done wonders. She almost felt completely human once more, but there was yet more to do. The sun was dipping below the horizon now, and she had been victoriously gratified to see Felix completely absorbed in one of the books she had given him, slowly turning the pages as he read in the infirmary. Marianne was still sleeping behind her quickly arranged makeshift partition, her bedsheets newly clean. The potion Manuela had provided last night was one of her stronger ones, and it made the body ignore its functions while a person slept. Trips and a silent Maunela had bent towards the task after classes, figuring they owed the girl to perform this chore without complaint. The helpful orphaned Almyran boy, Cyril, had accepted the laundry tub from the infirmary with stoic resolve.

Now she and Manuela faced a dilemma, as Trips thought to herself furiously outside the infirmary. They had promised to themselves that Marianne would wake up to a friend, but did Marianne have friends? That had prompted a panicked inquiry to Professors, but not House Leaders. Too much political drama was the last thing they needed with this case. That had not prevented Lord Claude, Prince Dimitri, and surprisingly, even Princess Edelgard from demanding time with Lady Marianne once she was awake. Their nominal status as cadets unfortunately did not prevent the royal children from flexing their status, and Marianne did not need a burden like that right now.

The list of other potential candidates was small. Mercedes was kind and sweet...too sweet. Marianne had already taken advantage of her gentle nature, and that she was still capable of that level of manipulation and planning worried Trips. Bernadetta was asked per Byleth’s suggestion, but the poor girl had been too frightened and anxious of making her friend worse, so much that Trips was left wondering if they would soon have another patient. Both physicians decided that Marianne did not need to be near another depressive and anxious personality.

Jeralt had suggested Hilda and Claude as likely candidates. Trips decided to trust her Captain’s recommendation, although she found the Goneril noble too flighty for her tastes, while Claude was a politically fraught candidate. She thought the Riegan noble had Almyran blood; since it was writ on his skin, how could he not? But when she broached the subject with Zarad, her usually chatty friend became tight-lipped all of a sudden. That made Trips all the more curious, but with reluctance, she disqualified Claude. That left only Hilda…

“Knight Beatrix.”

The deep voice surprised her, and Trips looked up from her musing to see the tall Duscar man, the Blue Lion Dedue, before her in the hallway.

“Ah. Cadet Dedue? You’re the one who fought Captain Jeralt to a standstill,” said Trips, recovering from her shock.

“Yes. I am. Although I was defeated. I do not wish to talk about that,” said the massive Blue Lion, with nary an expression on his face.

Trips decided straightforwardness and repetition was the best approach. “Then what do you wish to talk about, Cadet?”

He surprised her again by bowing deeply before her. “I am here to plead Prince Dimitri’s case. He must be the one to speak with Lady Marianne once she wakes.”

“Is that entirely appropriate?” said Trips, raising an eyebrow.

“Do not insinuate faults of my Prince. He has none...except for perhaps his great heart,” said Dedue with a touch of sorrow.

Trips sighed to herself. It looked like she was going to have to explain her reasoning all over again to someone. “Prince Dimitri meeting with Lady Marianne might be politically complicated…”

“There are no political considerations between an individual’s life and death,” stated Dedue flatly.

Blinking at that, the healer tried once more. “It might be awkward for Lady Marianne…”

“The Prince would welcome you as a chaperone. Lady Marianne’s integrity must remain beyond reproach.”

Now Trips was frowning mightily at the boy’s stubbornness. “And is Prince Dimitri qualified to be a healer?”

Deude frowned down at her in return from his height. “Prince Dimitri convinced me to live, after my mother and father were cut down before me, as well as my sister. He shielded me from death with his own body, from the swords of his own Knights and soldiers. They defied his commands to spare my life, even though he still bore bandaged and bloody wounds from the Tragedy. My Prince is eloquent with his words, and in his care for others. He can hardly speak now but out of concern for this woman.” The massive frame of the cadet bent low in a bow once more. “I have pled my case for his intervention.” The tall Duscarman stood silent and still after his speech, his gaze steady.

At times, Trips felt defeated by unstated emotion. She had worked so hard and so long to drag the slightest bits forth from Byleth over the years, and the constant effort left herself vulnerable when exposed to it. It was momentarily overwhelming when confronted by something so similar...yet so different. She turned her face away to master herself and breathe. Once she felt she was composed, she faced the tall man once more. Jeralt had told her this one was smart.

“Very well. Where may I find Prince Dimitri?”

*

Dimitri strode quickly behind the short form of Lady Beatrix, the rustle of the woman’s grey travel-stained robes and the rapping of her staff on the stone seemingly the only sounds in the hall. His after-class training session had been adequate, and there were no tics or chaotic visions or sounds currently intruding upon him. Indeed, his attention was entirely focused on what he could possibly say to Lady Marianne, and why he felt so certain he had to be the one to say those things. He was acting presumptuous; his behavior was that of an arrogant and entitled Princeling noble. He had hardly spoken a dozen words to Lady Marianne before the mock battle, and that event had been their only meaningful conversation they had ever had. It was foolish, ridiculous, and irrational for him to be here.

But then again, Dimitri acknowledged he was not feeling very rational these days.

They were nearly at the infirmary doors, when they abruptly opened before them to reveal the short form of Hilda, along with the taller ones of Professor Manuela and Claude. They closed the doors completely, but stopped to await Dimitri and Beatrix.

An arched eyebrow from Professor Manuela at his presence persuaded Lady Beatrix to explain herself. “Great minds, I guess, Manuela. I was thinking of Marianne’s housemates, but someone reminded me of how Prince Dimitri helped Marianne during the mock battle. I figured he deserved a visit, at least. How is she?”

“She’s so sad...it makes me sad, and I usually don’t have any reason to be sad, ever,” sniffed Hilda, her eyes downcast. “I just wish I could take it out of her and lock it away…”

Claude was eyeing the tall Prince thoughtfully. “I didn’t really try to say anything to her. Just tried to be there, to be physically present, you know? But for what it’s worth...I’m glad you’re here, Dimitri. It means a lot.” He reached out his hand.

Dimtri nodded and smiled as he clasped wrists with the young Duke. “Any poor service of mine I am happy to give, Claude. I hate to see any soul suffer in this way, but seeing it in someone so fair and beautiful makes it even harder.”

“This is the difficult part, children. Getting her to eat, to take care of herself and her appearance. We must rely on the Goddess to see her through the darkness, and remind her of the joy and blessing of her own life,” said Professor Maunela, making a small sign of piety. Lady Beatrix pulled her aside and began demanding the latest updates on her patient’s health. 

Dimitri leaned close to his fellow House Leader as the two healers conversed, with Hilda chiming in with surprisingly astute observations. “Claude, is there a reason for Lady Marianne’s distress? She has not been...mistreated, has she?” asked the Faerghus Prince in a low tone to his fellow noble.

Claude made a show of consideration as he eyed the Blue Lion. “Please keep it to yourself, but she does have a tragic past. She is only the adopted daughter of Margrave Edmund. Her parents vanished four years ago…”

 _Four years ago._ Despite his efforts, Dimitri could not maintain his mask at those words. His expression became strained, and Claude vanished, replaced by screams, flames, and...bodies...so many bodies...all of them covered with thick blood, with the cloying stench of cooked meat that overwhelmed him….

“Um, Dimitri? Are you all right, buddy? You look kind of...lost,” Claude was saying, now worried.

With great effort, Dimitri bent all of his will to ignore the flashback. After all these years, he should be used to them by now. And somehow he managed, for there was another that needed him now. A pale blue haired girl with downcast eyes, who had also lost her parents…

“I...I am sorry, Claude. Your words just reminded me of my own...tragic past,” the Prince strove valiantly to smile to ease the tension.

To his credit, the Leicester Heir was abashed by his words. “Dimitri...oh, damn it, I put my foot in it, didn’t I? Um...sorry. I keep forgetting how much you’ve been through.”

“Do not trouble yourself over it, Claude. It is my burden, not yours. But you were saying of poor Lady Marianne?”

Claude appeared unconvinced, but continued his narrative, selecting his words with more care. “Right, sure. Uh, I managed to get most of the story pieced together from Lysithea and Lorenz. You probably know Margrave Edmund is the newest Great Lord of Alliance, and basically bought his way into the nobility, but from what I can tell, he’s pretty much on the straight and narrow, despite making a fortune in the shipping trade. Donates to the Church, lends to the nobles and merchants, gives alms to the poor. The guy may be a little long winded, but he’s an ok noble in my book. He was just recently appointed nobility by my grandfather, and the one thing he didn’t have was an heir. Or a recent Crest lineage. And...poor Marianne, um, was still a minor noble, apparently without a guardian at her family estate. Somehow--don’t ask me how, I heard enough about it from Lorenz--they’re distant cousins even though he’s much older. As a brand new Margrave, he was within his rights to appoint her to his household, since her parents left no will or testament.”

“And what happened to her parents?” asked Dimitri in a deep reluctant tone. His control was better, now. He could handle the memories and guard his face.

“Ah...so, yeah, they just vanished. Poof! Completely gone one day, if you can believe Ignatz’s version of events. Marianne was fending by herself for weeks at her family estate and farms, if not months before the Margrave took custody of her,” explained Claude, spreading his hands helplessly.

The Prince instantly felt a new flash of empathy. At least he knew what had happened to his parents, as terrible it was. Lady Marianne didn’t even have that. He was about to respond when he became aware of the presence of the three ladies rejoining them.

“I think we’re ready to have this visit. Let’s keep it short, please, Your Highness?” pleaded Lady Beatrix earnestly.

“Um, you know that Prince Dimitri is basically the biggest teddy bear in the school, right? He’ll be fine with poor Marianne, won’t you Dimitri? I know I can trust you with her,” said Hilda with uncomfortable familiarity as she winked a pink eye up at him. He could hardly respond to such intimate banter, especially with Claude sniggering behind him.

“Yes, please follow the example of these dear Golden Deer children, Your Highness,” said Professor Manuela, unaware of her pun. “You were such a sweetheart to help her on the battlefield, that I’m sure she’ll remember that and have feelings for you.” Then she smiled at the others, ignoring Dimitri’s flaming cheeks. “Hilda, I’ll come fetch you sometime tomorrow so Marianne may visit the stables. And my Lord Duke, you may escort me to the dining hall in recompense for your very _poorly_ aimed arrow at me during the mock battle.”

Claude elaborately bowed to the Black Eagles Professor. “My mother always told me to show respect to fair and beautiful young ladies off the battlefield, Professor Manuela.”

“Oh my. Such terrible, shop-worn flattery! Maybe I can teach you something after all, young man--”

“I believe I’m feeling hungry, too,” announced Hilda suddenly, glaring up at Manuela. “C’mon, Claude, let’s go.” The dark haired man gave a doleful, long-suffering roll of the eyes to DImitri as he was dragged away by the two women down the corridor.

Shaking her head at the scene, Beatrix said to Dimitri, “Unbelievable. How did she get into Garreg Mach? How did any of them get into Garreg Mach?”

Dimitri shook his head in return. “Do you really want to know, Lady Beatrix?”

“On second thought…”

They entered the infirmary quietly. Felix looked up from his reading momentarily, scowling at the sight of Dimitri. Dimitri politely inclined his head to Felix, but his old friend snorted and looked away, ignoring his presence. The Prince returned the favor easily enough, seeing a profile in shadow with curtains drawn around a bed in the opposite corner of the room. A Knight of Seiros stood nearby, unarmored and looking restless and bored. She bowed shortly as the cadet and healer approached.

“Has Marianne eaten or drank anything?” asked Beatrix in a quiet voice.

The female Knight shrugged carelessly. “She ate some of her stew. Perhaps a cup of water. No meat in the stew though. Who likes food with no meat?”

“Some people do,” said the healer shortly, apparently not wanting to debate dietary preferences. “Marianne?” she called in a more normal voice. “It’s Beatrix. I have one more visitor who would like to see you. Is that acceptable?”

The form shifted behind the partition. “Um. I guess. But no more, please,” said the delicate voice.

“This is the last one,” reassured Lady Beatrix. She motioned him forward.

Dimitri suddenly felt self-conscious as he was prodded past the curtain. He had just finished a training session, and his uniform and hair were still damp with sweat. Trying to enter the small space at the foot of Marianne’s bed was difficult as well, as he felt clumsy and rash trying to shift to sit on the stool before her. A glimpse of her in the lamplight was quickly averted. Lady Marianne’s hair was down across her shoulders and face, and she was dressed in a simple white shift. Somehow...seeing her in such a vulnerable state...made himself feel as he was intruding on her privacy. He quickly rebuked himself for such thoughts.

“Ah. Prince Dimitri,” breathed the girl, trying to shrink into her covers and bed. “I’m sorry…”

Years of training at the court helped him find his voice. “Please, no apologies. I have...simply come to see that you are well, my Lady,” said Dimitri, avoiding her eyes. “And to also say...that I am glad you are still with us.”

“But you--someone like you--shouldn’t trouble yourself with me…” sighed Marianne. She looked down at her bedding, her hands restlessly plucking the sheets as she continued. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m a wicked creature, one that only brings misfortune to others.”

Dimitri nodded thoughtfully at words. “And you hurt inside...so much that you can’t explain it, but you think it’s obvious that everyone can see it...but they don’t, do they? They just...walk right by.”

Marianne was silent save for a quick inhalation, but he saw her answering nod.

He forced himself to continue. “Lady Marianne...I told you before, at the mock battle, you were not alone. I meant that. I know what you are fighting against. I have felt the same urge myself at times.”

That shock sent her voice above a whisper. “Y-you? But you’re a Prince. You...you must have so much to live for…”

“Do I?” Dimitri said with dour chuckle, now looking away himself. “A lifetime of burdens and expectations and examples that I will never live up to. Endless responsibility and endless duty. Tell me, what do I have to live for?”

“But...you still must have people who love you. Unlike me…” she whispered, looking down again.

“I do not believe that is true, Lady Marianne. And if you had died...I would have mourned for the rest of my days. And that is the truth.”

“But why? Why me? I’m no good.”

“Because I would have lost a friend, if I may presume. Someone who understands the pain of being...left behind. When your family was cruelly taken instead.”

Her silence answered for her.

He swallowed past his dry mouth, but it needed to be said. For the first time, he wanted to say it to someone else, and it felt...not good, but at least right. “You...you may know my story. About the Tragedy of Duscar. I saw my father killed in front of me. My mother’s carriage, burning until it collapsed and only the ashes remained. My closest friends, my knights...all of them dying...even servants and retainers I had known since childhood. And sometimes, when alone at night...I still see it. I see the flames, and the bodies. And while I used to feel sorrow, now I feel merely...empty. Or numb. Or angry. The Goddess let everyone die that day on the road to Duscar...except for me.”

A sympathetic whisper. “Y-yes. I’d heard about it. I’m sorry, Prince Dimitri.”

“Thank you, Lady Marianne,” he said, and he meant it. They were silent for a few long moments, and Dimitri found himself appreciating her presence. He had to briefly fight against his memories, and the terrible whispers that came with it, but being with another person made it easier to banish them, and ground himself once more.

He looked up to see her studying him, but she shyly averted her gaze once she saw his eyes. Softly, he asked, “May I ask you what your story is, Lady Marianne?”

She was silent for another long moment, but slowly whispered, “It was just after I had been confirmed in our local Church. My mother was so happy for me, I remember. She had been...planning a celebration, with the servants. But my father came home that day from the fields. He was worried. I don’t know about what. He talked for a long time with Mother in private, and then when they returned she hugged and kissed me, and said that since I was a grown woman now, I could watch the estate and the farm and the horses on my own. She said that...she and Father had to do something, but they would be back in a few days. They rode away together, to the south. And...I never saw them again.”

“I see,” replied Dimitri. “So your parents just...disappeared one day. And you feel like you did something wrong…”

“But I did,” she interrupted him, her voice stronger. “You can’t understand, but it was my fault that they vanished. Because of me, and the bad luck that I cause in other people. And that’s why everyone should stay away from me, Prince Dimitri. Especially you. I...I don’t want to give my misfortune to an entire Kingdom.”

For the first time with her, Dimitri frowned. “Forgive me, but I do not believe that you will. In fact, I consider myself fortunate to have met you.”

“F-fortunate?” She was shocked again.

“Yes. Had you not acted the way you did in the mock battle...we would not be speaking. I would not have known about your story, and how much pain you feel. Lady Marianne...I think we are very similar, in many ways. And have gone through similar experiences. May I guess as to what happened to you after that day, my Lady?”

“Uhm. Ok. Go ahead…”

Dimitri focused his eyes on the cold stone at his feet. “Something terrible happened to you and your family. But when you survived, everyone around you focused on you, ignoring the family that was so important to you...that you had depended on. They told you to move on, probably. Leave them at rest. Am I correct so far, Lady Marianne?”

“Y-yes. Dimitri…”

The Prince continued without listening, caught up in his bitterness, his anger. “Move on. Leave them at peace. Almost like telling you to forget them. And that hurts. It hurts so badly that people say nice things, but then move on with life as if nothing has happened. When they don’t realize that everything…. _everything_...has changed. They just want to move on with their own busy lives, not realizing they’re making everything worse. And then it hurts even more, because now they want you to perform. To play-act like it doesn’t matter that your parents died. Telling you to be happy, or to cheer up. To pretend that your life wasn’t devastated. But then when you tell them…” Dimitri swallowed, then harshly continued. “...they remind you that your parents are not here. That you have to live up to them. Or live on for them. Even as you grow older, and miss them more with every birthday, every Saint Seiros day, every moment that was special. You feel like you are all alone. And no one understands. No one shows you...understanding. Or acceptance. The way that only your parents did…”

Marianne had been silently crying during his entire speech, but now she burst out with a loud sob. “P-please...n-no more-e…” she wept, overwhelmed.

He blinked out of his reverie, aghast at the sight of Lady Marianne in tears. What had he said? What had he done? Desperate to ease her pain, he reached out to her. “Lady Marianne! I’m sorry...but I just thought...since we are both orphans…”

“And that’s enough visitation time, right, Prince Dimitri?” said Lady Beatrix, throwing the curtain of the partition open, her face a marvelous study. “I knew this was a bad idea…” she started to reprimand.

“N-no!” said Marianne in sudden force at the healer, still hiccoughing through her tears but trying to compose herself. “He...I mean...Prince Dimitri didn’t do anything wrong! He was just trying to tell me he understands. I...I think he does...” she ended in a coughing whisper.

“No, I am sorry, but Lady Beatrix is right,” interrupted Dimitri, his voice harsh. He stood quickly, raging at himself. “I have hurt you at your most vulnerable, Lady Marianne. Only a thoughtless beast would act in such a way. I will trouble you no more, and pray for your swift recovery.”

Lady Beatrix was all too ready to usher him past the partition, but Marianne sat up and spoke. “Dimitri…” The sound of his name from her lips was the only thing that could have stopped him from leaving. “I’m sorry...but I do believe you now. You...you do understand. Th-thank you for coming, and...for thinking about me.”

The healer looked incredulously at Marianne, who was demurely looking at her covers again. Dimitri forced himself to turn and bow, unable to look at anything but the floor. “Thank you for your forgiveness...Marianne. I do not deserve it, but perhaps I may enjoy the pleasure of your company again?”

“I’d...like that,” the young noblewoman whispered, turning hopeful, innocent eyes to her healer.

Even the ex-mercenary was helpless before that gaze. Her eyes softened. “Ok, Marianne. Maybe Prince Dimitri can meet you for stable duty?”

“Yes...that would be nice,” Marianne said, smiling for the first time. “Do you like horses, Prince Dimitri?”

“Very much so,” he agreed with a smile of his own, enchanted by the way her face lit up at his words. “They are peaceful, noble creatures. I find riding to be very calming.” 

“I do too,” she replied timidly. “I’ll introduce you to Dorte. He’s my best friend here at the monastery…”

“I will look forward to it,” managed Dimitri after a bare pause, his heart almost breaking at her words. Her best friend here was...a horse. He allowed Lady Beatrix to shoo him from the infirmary after that, still caught up in the pathos of Marianne’s words, and stood quiet in contemplation as the healer shut the doors firmly behind him.

*

It was absolutely disgusting. What a farce.

At least the mercenary healer, Beatrix, seemed marginally aware of what she had inadvertently done. Felix watched her from his bed and backboard without pity, as she paced back and forth, muttering under her breath, to the obvious amusement of the Knight assigned to watch that suicidal Alliance girl. He felt a brief moment of revulsion as he considered the “Lady Marianne.” That kind of behavior was something Felix had no sympathy for. If you couldn’t value your own life, then it was better for you to just hurry up and die, rather than dragging the rest of your family and friends down like a useless grave monument. Just like she was doing to Dimitri now.

So. The boar had found himself a noble girlfriend to help him wallow in his misery with him. Felix grunted to himself in a brief flash of amusement as he considered the match. It would be the worst sort of relationship, with both of them codependent on each other just to live their sad, meaningless lives. They would gaze endlessly into the past and call it growth or insight. Just another mirror to narcissistically gaze into, as far as he was concerned.

Felix held no such illusions about himself. The sword was his only true family now. He despised nobles like his father, a ghoul who relished in the egotistical honor the death of a son could bring him. And he had no time for frivolous noble girls looking for a match, with their petty, self-absorbed interests. His friends were no better. All of them were ill-suited for true battle, true war. Even Ingrid, despite her persistence in following her childhood fantasies. They were too soft for such a life. Glenn had taught him that. One wrong move, and you’re a corpse. No one cares about corpses. And corpses don’t care about you. He remembered that brutal childhood lesson very well...

There was always the rare exception. Cassandra...oh, I meant Catherine, he snorted to himself, managed to escape the trap of many Faerghus heirs. And then she had abandoned noble life the first chance she had gotten, hadn’t she? How convenient for the Church to find a Holy Knight right on their doorstep, utterly dependent upon their largesse. Another form of enabling, shallow, codependent relationships.

Caught up in reflection by the boring enforced bedrest, Felix had to admit to himself that the commoner women at Garreg Mach were a different story. Leonie held herself to high standards, and didn’t care about who had a Crest or not. Having met Professor Jeralt, Felix couldn’t help but respect her choice in mentors. That singer, Dorothea, was almost as flighty as a noble, but she had hard edges underneath her soft exterior that he easily noticed. She had trained in both swordplay and magic, and since reading these magical texts, Felix was just now appreciating what an advantage that could bring in battle. To call down a lightning bolt upon someone from a distance...well, it would save time on the field. Not that he would ever tell healer Beatrix. Or thank her.

And then, there was Petra…now, that had been a duel...

Feh, Felix mentally reprimanded himself. He could hardly accuse Dimitri of being smitten if he acted in a similar fashion. Besides, the girl was an Imperial, and a foreigner to boot. She could barely speak intelligibly. Just another collared dog on Edelgard’s leash to bark for the Empire.

He frowned as he realized the healer, Beatrix, was now leaning over him, drawing him from his musings. “How are you feeling tonight, Felix?” she inquired, still half-looking over her shoulder. Seeking distraction from her mistake, no doubt.

“Bored,” he grunted. “My back feels fine. Can I please just go now?”

“Just a moment,” she said, closing her eyes and resting a shining hand on his shoulder. He felt pulsing warmth tickle through his body, sending probing tingles down his spine. Felix cursed himself as a twinge of searing nerve pain down his lower extremities made him hiss involuntarily.

Nodding, the woman opened her eyes. “I say give it at least another day, Felix. If you’re cooperative, we’ll let you out to attend classes after that, but still, another three days of limited activity. That means no sparring, no swordplay, but you can at least go to the training grounds and observe. Deal?”

Finally. “Deal. Anything to get me away from the boar’s melancholic girlfriend.”

The healer paused in mid-turn, and Felix cursed himself again. Him and his big mouth. All this bedrest was making him soft. “Boar?” she echoed curiously. “You mean the Prince? What is that, some sort of childhood nickname?”

That made him actually laugh out loud. That was a good one. Unfortunately, it only made the stupid mercenary woman more curious, and she said, “Ok, it’s nice to know you can laugh, but I don’t see what’s so funny.”

Still chuckling, Felix told her, “He’s a boar because that’s what he is. A mad beast wanting blood. You’d best keep him away from that Golden Deer girl. It’s only a matter of time before he breaks her heart...or her neck.”

“A beast…? I’ve heard he’s strong, but...”

A flash of pure irritation. This old blue haired bint couldn’t read a sign. Uncharitably, he said, “It has nothing to do with strength. It has everything to do with sanity. The Tragedy broke the beast. Forever. Oh, he can still put on the courtly airs, like a trained marionette. But it’s in battle that he shows his true self. He’s obsessed with pain, and death.” Feeling satisfied that his words were finally registering for the old woman, he smiled and added, “In fact, your own Knight Byleth was injured because of him. That’s why he’s so nice to your daughter. And Marianne. The animal can still feel guilty occasionally after it bites. But eventually, it always will.”

“Interesting,” she mused thoughtfully after a long moment of eyeing him carefully. “So...you think Prince Dimitri is dangerous?”

“I know he is.”

*

Later that evening, the High Abbot was finishing up his final interview of the night.

“So when you cast the spell...you say that Lady Ingrid stepped _through_ it, correct?” asked Seteth, glancing down at the various written testaments before him.

“I’m getting tired of repeating myself, but yes, she did. I didn’t suspect she was magic-resistant when she attacked me,” said Lysithea, scowling at the memory.

“And what would your spell have done if she had not resisted?”

The small young girl shrugged slightly. “It was a moderately powerful wind spell. It should have stopped her in her tracks, or maybe knocked her to the ground.”

“So then Miss Arnault witnessed this? And that’s what made her improve her rune spell, in your opinion?”

An affirming nod, and then the young child launched into a lecture. “She did take a risk in doing so, because it can be hard to anticipate the degree of magical resistance you’re facing. Although her rune spell was a clever variation of a galvanic energy trap, and was purposefully designed from the start to incapacitate, not injure or kill. All the magic-using professors approved of her effort, by the way. So do I.”

Seteth smiled. Being spouted off to by this child reminded him of Flayn, although Lysithea was much more serious and somber. He went on with the interview, and said, “You mentioned risk, though?”

“Well, yes, but it’s difficult to explain. Intent matters so much in conjuring anima. Dorothea meant for her trap to focus on the muscles of her target, not the organs. That’s how Ingrid was relatively uninjured afterwards. But even if your magic is precise, the person’s body can react in different ways you can’t anticipate. Similar to how striking a blow to the head to just knock someone out can accidently kill.”

“And Miss Arnault tried to entice you to the trap earlier, as well?” said Seteth, rubbing his bearded chin thoughtfully.

Another shrug from the cadet. “She did. I think she was going to try to get me to chase after her, so that I wouldn’t see the ground. It might have worked, but I probably would have seen it and negated it.”

Seteth nodded and rose from his chair behind his large officious desk. “Very well, Lady Lysithea. Thank you for your time. Let me just add that your confidence and intelligence are exceptional for your age. But do be careful to not succumb to the sin of pride and arrogance,” said the Abbot.

Lysithea slowly stood as well as he finished, and then she snorted, “That’s typical, coming from a high ranking member of the Church, and the headmaster of this Academy.”

“And just what do you mean by that?” said Seteth with his most severe frown. Unfortunately for him, it only had the opposite effect.

“And I even have to spell it out for you?” snarked the child, her pale red eyes boring fearlessly into his own as she continued in a scathing voice. “No wonder you’re running such a slip-shod mess around here. Let me list the extremely large problems you’ve completely failed to address to everyone’s dissatisfaction. One, our first professor runs away three weeks into the semester, after a bandit attack near Garreg mach. Two, said bandit attack is aimed at all three House Leaders, which you won’t even acknowledge. Three, one of our classmates tries to kill herself after the mock battle, but you’re here conducting meaningless disciplinary investigations over a trivial non-issue. So don’t you talk to me about arrogance, when you’re obviously not immune to it yourself. I had that burned out of me a long time ago.” Seteth could only gape in response, shocked beyond words. No one, not even Flayn or Professor Manuela, had spoken to him in such a manner. The small albino cadet finally finished her tirade. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the library to study. Good evening, Father Seteth.” The small girl flounced from the room with a flash of white hair.

It took him longer than he wanted to get over his shock, and then even longer for his anger. Being lectured by a fifteen year old cadet did that to him. But eventually his blood cooled, and he acknowledged to himself the pert little student was entirely right, if not in the specifics. The monastery, and by extension the Central Church, the central rock of faith for the Goddess across Fodlan, was failing.

And Seteth could not hold it together by himself.

Part of it was simply human nature, and the evolution of Fodlan society. He had grieved when he had learned the grand project of his brothers and sister, their grand Empire for humanity, had at last succumbed to internal corruption and tyranny, leading to Loog’s Rebellion. Then came the inevitable divisions within the Kingdom of Faerghus itself, when three competing Crest bearing heirs of the House of Blayddid attempted to divide the region without war, a decision which only postponed the succession crisis to the next generation. And Leceister had always considered itself a land apart from the rest of Fodlan anyway; the region’s climate was mild, with an access to a bounty of food and numerous warm-water ports. It was inevitable that once the Faerghus region of Fodlan rebelled, the eastern regions would follow.

And now the continent of Fodlan was divided into three countries, with Garreg Mach bordering all three. The Academy, which was founded to train Crest-bearing nobles in the defense of their homelands against the hordes of Almyra, was now simply a _de facto_ institute for match-making and noble intrigue, rather than military college. Rhea’s spiritual authority was still high among the people, but her political influence was severely curtailed. And now the three heirs of all three countries were here, at the same time…

Seteth frowned as he walked to the Archbishop’s chambers, absorbed in the recent events during his time here next to Rhea. All three of the royal noble houses had been targeted politically in recent years. Duke Godfrey of House Riegan, a charming graduate of Garreg Mach that Seteth remembered well, had died last year in mysterious circumstances while meeting some merchants. King Lambert had died in the Tragedy of Duscar four years ago, on what was supposed to have been a peaceful visit. And then there was the Insurrection of the Seven against Emperor Ionius, nine years earlier. And now all three royal heirs, the children most directly affected by these events, were attending the Academy in the same class. It was an unprecedented situation in the two hundred year history of the Academy.

Someone was coordinating these events, Seteth decided. Some group, undermining Fodlan and its Church from within. A foreign power? Possibly Almyra? They had been more quiet than usual in recent years, although skirmishes were still common along the Leicester border. Or perhaps it was an alliance of recently defeated nations, such as Dagda, Brigid, and Duscar? That was unlikely, although rebellions and raiding incursions were still sparking unrest. Maybe a cabal of internal dissidents, sharing information and material across borders, waiting for the time to spring their own coup? But then how could such a group be assured of conquering all three nations at the same time, not to mention the Central Church itself?

If only he could tease out the thread that tied all of these events together…

Absorbed in his thoughts, he nearly bumped into Shamir as she was exiting the Archbishop’s chambers as he attempted to enter. “Knight Shamir,” he said, surprised. “What did Lady Rhea want with you at this late hour?”

“Just telling a story about bath time, Seteth,” said the Dagdan woman, her face locked in its usual stoicism. She brushed past him and walked to the stairs.

That was an odd comment, even for Shamir. Surely Rhea would explain in more detail. He entered the dim throne chamber, and seeing the glow of light in Rhea’s nearby study, made his way there.

At the portal, he silently paused and waited, not wanting to disturb his sister. Rhea was praying, kneeling before her own private shrine. He hoped any such communion she was having with their mother was bearing fruit. His own faith was being sorely tested after the past twelve hundred years of silence. But such was the nature of their mission.

With inhuman patience, Seteth observed Rhea for the next hour, not wanting to intrude as his sister occasionally swayed and hummed a familiar, sorrowful song as she knelt. The lullaby of their mother. It was beautiful and touching, but also...concerning. Seteth had only had occasional contact with Rhea over the centuries, until her desperate plea for him to join her twenty years ago. Flayn was but just recently awoken from her healing sleep, so Seteth decided to place her with trusted members of the faith, who could care for her in his brief absence until they could be eventually reunited. But the desperate call for aid from his elder sister had demanded his attention. Rhea, as the firstborn of the Goddess, had taken the death of their mother much harder than her brothers. Yet she had held steadfast throughout the centuries, adopting new identities as needed to constantly lead her creation, the Church. Alone, but unwavering, for years and centuries unending.

So why did it break his heart to see her now? Two personas, eternally at war with another. A woman, unfathomably ancient by human years, with the wisdom of thousands of years of history inside of her. A child, still longing for little more than a glimpse of its mother, still nursing a grief as fresh as the shock of the first moment of horror. Between the two sides of her nature, Seteth feared Rhea was losing herself. Not in a benign way, such as Indech, who had willingly secreted himself away from humanity, or delighting in a misanthropic, territorial existence, like Macuil.

No, what Seteth feared most is what would happen if Rhea realized that her mission was, indeed, a hopeless quest. What divine madness could follow then... 

Eventually his sister straightened, then roused herself away from her personal altar. While most symbols in the monastery reflected the Symbol of Seiros, Rhea’s Sign, her own shrine displayed a different symbol, carved from rose quartz marble. A symbol of Fire. Of Creation.

“Thank you for waiting patiently, Seteth,” said the Archbishop, turning to face him, her face gentle. “Have you completed your interviews?”

He gave Rhea a sour grunt. “After being chastised by a fifteen year old, I believe my investigation is complete.”

Rhea was amused. “Chastised? By whom?” 

“Lysithea von Ordelia. She thinks we are fools. I am finding it hard to disagree with her.”

“Doubts, dear Seteth?”

“Always. I sometimes envy Indech at the bottom of his lake. You are used to this dance, Rhea. These mortal dramas. I am not.”

Shaking her head, Rhea said, “Seteth, you were once the rock all of us depended upon. That was your gift. I believe you are simply...out of practice.”

“I am worried, Rhea,” he admitted to his sister. “These mock battles, this teaching, these administrative duties...I fear we are being distracted by minutiae, while our enemies are out there. Waiting for the opportune moment.”

“Then these fools will discover the high price of wickedness and sin,” said Rhea sternly, but soon she smiled again. “Besides, Seteth, I have not been idle myself. For Catherine and Shamir have told me the most encouraging news, and Hanneman has confirmed it, though he knows it naught. Please, let us sit, and I will tell you.”

“That does remind me. Shamir made a strange comment about bath time?” asked Seteth as he settled into a chair.

As Rhea seated herself, she actually laughed outright, a rarity. “Is that what she called it? It makes sense that as an unbeliever, her view of us is...jaundiced. But first I would hear of our charges. How is young Marianne?”

“The classes have rallied in support of her, and Manuela and Beatrix have arranged a solid plan for her care. I have sent a letter to Margrave Edmund, though it might be some time before our courier reaches him. She may be back in class within a week.”

“That is assuring news. May the Goddess light her path going forward. And what of our young actress?”

“Dorothea is without fault, in my judgement. The entire conjurer community amongst us agrees. I admit I remember little of Macuil’s lessons in magical theory. And it has advanced considerably since then,” Seteth confessed ruefully.

“That is sufficient. It has been some time since I have conjured anima myself. Not in this current guise, at least.”

“So what is your news?” he asked anxiously.

Rhea’s voice lowered. “It concerns our most recent Knight. During her immersion rite at the Holy Pool, both Catherine and Shamir reported to me that she had...visions. Of what truly happened at Zanado. Of the attack by the Traitor.”

Seteth felt himself go absolutely still. “She is Sainted?” he whispered finally.

Rhea seemed to glow with holy satisfaction. “More than that. Hanneman and Beatrix have discovered that she has a Crest. No, not just a Crest. _The_ Crest, Seteth.”

Involuntarily, Seteth’s gaze was drawn to the symbol on Rhea’s shrine. “Mother’s--?”

“Yes, my dear brother. It may be, at long last, that our wait is at an end. She has been gone for so long from this world, but finally, our faith and prayers have been answered!”

“But...in the form of a human girl--? Raised outside the faith…!”

“Not just any girl. Jeralt and Glyasa’s daughter. That is why I begged for your assistance twenty years ago. Glyasa was Sainted as well, but had...difficulty...controlling the dreams and visions. Instead, she fell in love with my most trusted Knight-Captain, Jeralt Reus, who had been in my service for decades. He was a recipient of my blood, and it manifested in him a Major Crest of my Sign. It was a potent match that has borne fruitful.”

“But then Jeralt abandoned you, taking the child…” mused Seteth. Much of Rhea’s recent behavior was now making sense.

Motionless for a moment in her memories, Rhea eventually sighed in regret. “It was more that I abandoned Jeralt. He and I were close for many years, but as he grew older and his comrades around him grew old and died, he began to see our relationship as...one-sided. And I understood his plight, having endured it for myself, many times over. But he did not have our patience, our wisdom for such an existence.”

“And we do?” asked Seteth bluntly, feeling the bitterness of ages sweep over him.

“What do you mean?” Rhea asked in surprise.

“Just this, Rhea. So much of what we have done, and what we are doing, rests on assumptions. Without Her guidance, we have done what we thought would be Her wishes. Now that we have a sign of Her Rebirth, in this woman Byleth...I still find myself apprehensive. Mother’s Crest of Flames is the Sign of Creation, of Rebirth. But it can also herald Destruction….”

“Of our enemies, Seteth,” said Rhea confidently, interrupting him. “Only our enemies, and the wicked sinners who have rejected our teachings. And that is why we must help teach Byleth, dear brother. We must bring Mother’s Divine Judgement to the forefront of her consciousness, and encourage her visions, her dreams. She is still asleep within her for now. But eventually, with our help, she will Awaken.”

Seteth felt uneasy with the fanatical light in Rhea’s eyes. He looked away from his sister and asked, “And what of Byleth’s soul?”

“It will be saved. She is still a Child of the Goddess, Seteth. Nothing that She creates can be destroyed.”

It was unusual for a religious leader of his stature to find blind faith repellent, but Seteth saw that he was not going to convince Rhea otherwise. Instead, he asked, “Are there any other signs or dreams that we know of concerning Knight Byleth?”

Rhea smiled. “She did call me Seiros.”

He tried to maintain his frown, but soon smiled as well at the memory of the young woman’s accolade. “A slip of the tongue, Rhea…”

His sister made a small pout. “I thought it was quite endearing, however. But, as for your question, the only other sign that I know of are her ears. The tops are slightly pointed. Not enough so that she has to hide them as we do. But it is a sign of Nabatean heritage coming from two humans, Seteth! That alone is a miracle.”

Seteth thought that could be interpreted as so much wishful thinking, if not for the evidence of the Crest itself. But that was not important now. Rhea was convinced on this course of action; it was his duty to see her will done. He clasped his hands in front of him and leaned forward. “So how do you intend to guide your young Knight going forward?” he asked.

“For the moment, we will simply observe. But later this Garland Moon I intend to take her to Zanado myself. Hopefully, there among the holy ruins, she might remember something of her previous incarnation.”

“So soon?” asked Seteth, surprised.

At last Rhea’s composure started cracking. Her pale face, normally so serene, finally revealed her deep seated anguish. “Seteth, please...we _need_ Mother. Only she is capable of healing this land once again. As for myself…” Rhea hesitated, then reluctantly said, “I am...unworthy of being part of such a gift. The necessary tasks of maintaining the Church, of seeking for signs of Her throughout the centuries...they weigh upon my soul. When this is done...I think I will rest. It has been a long time since I have truly Slept.”

The High Abbot nodded. He and Flayn no longer needed the decade-long Dragonsleep, having voluntarily given up most of their ancient heritage, but it would be vital for Rhea to maintain it for her to stay in control of her divine blood. He cocked his head in curiosity. “How long, dear sister?”

The Archbishop of Fodlan adopted a guilty and evasive expression that only another sibling could detect. “Over a century,” she confessed ruefully.

*

Lysithea entered the dim library, pleased to see Ignatz at least was diligently reading a single book at one of the numerous desks, like a polite person. Claude, in contrast, was looking back and forth between an even dozen tomes, carelessly creasing pages and stacking fragile spines on top of one another without care for the condition of the volumes. Such behavior deserved only a reprimand, but Lysithea held her tongue for a moment as she realized the boys had set out the most important volume out on a seperate desk just for her... _Ille Historiees Ofth Ille Empyre_. The language was archaic and the spelling was atrocious, but it was a faithful copy of the original book, written by the founders of the Empire, tracing the events of the War of Heroes since the reign of Wilheim I. Indeed, this copy was ancient in its own right. 

She opened the massive book carefully with a light touch of her anima, scanning the pages quickly. She was not interested in descendants or cadet branches or cousins. Instead, there were brief biographies of each Saint and Elite, as well as Emperor Wilheim and other notables of that ancient, century long war that founded the Empire of Adrestia. Lysithea shuddered to think of how powerful the dark gods must have been for King Nemesis and Saint Seiros to have fought so long together, side by side, only for the King of Liberation turn at last to their dark whispers of possessing god-like power. What terror these ancient folk must have experienced…

“Oh, Lysithea! I didn’t even hear you come in,” said Claude after a while, scooting back from his chair to greet her.

“You weren’t supposed to,” she replied, not looking at him, absorbed in her reading of ancient Crest-bearers.

“Ouch. And here I was going to ask your intelligent opinion on something I found…”

“Stop bothering me, Claude. I’m reading,” she huffed, flipping through yet more brittle pages with her mind and magic. She studiously ignored him as he stood patiently nearby. She would not get annoyed by him, and his petty, childish ways. She was perfectly capable of ignoring him as he tried to outwait her. If he wanted to play stupid games, that was his problem, not hers. In fact, Claude was really quite foolish and immature, if you really thought about it, and nothing that her House Leader regarded as interesting could possibly be interesting to her. So she would just keep reading, even though she had just lost her place on this page numerous times…

Ugh. So be it. “Fine,” she sighed. “What did you want me to look at?”

“C’mon and I’ll show you,” he beckoned her. He was wisely not smiling at her. Lysithea smothered her irritation and followed him.

He pointed to a drawing in an open book before him, where he had been reading. It was a depiction of a sword.

“The Sword of the Creator,” nodded Lysithea in recognition. “King Nemesis’ weapon during the ancient wars. It vanished after his death, though.”

“Can you imagine it, though? A flaming sword that could carve mountains! I bet that made people stand up and pay attention,” Claude enthused, a gloved hand tracing the drawing. He was acting like a kid that wanted a particular doll for Saint Seiros Day.

“I can imagine,” drawled Lysithea, trying to clamp down on her impatience. “Why is this particularly relevant to what we were supposed to be doing?”

“It isn’t, but I noticed something odd. Look at the crosspiece and hilt of the sword.”

Frowning, she looked at the drawing again. The artistry was stylized and faded, but in the middle of the crosspiece… “It’s empty,” she realized, becoming intrigued despite herself.

“Isn’t that interesting? I thought Crest Stones were needed for the Relics to work. At least, that’s how my grandfather explained Failnaught to me.”

Lysithea nodded up to him. “They do. A Relic without the corresponding Crest Stone is just a hunk of bone. It’s incredibly dangerous and careless to handle a Relic that way, however, which is why nobody does it.”

“So let me see if I have it straight: without a Crest Stone, anyone could pick up a Relic, even if they didn’t have a Crest. Sure, it might not have its full power, but it’s still an indestructible weapon, right?

“In _theory_ , yes. In practice, no noble family would be insane enough to do what you’re describing.”

“King Nemesis’ family did,” said Claude, tapping the page.

She crossed her arms. “Claude. King Nemesis has no descendants, so they probably all died in the war a thousand years ago, along with this sword, which also disappeared a thousand years ago. Don’t you think if someone had access to this Relic, they would have found it and used it by now? It’s simply another vanished treasure, and just a historical curiosity at this point. I guess you can use this knowledge for a trivia contest or something…”

“But maybe that’s just it!” he broke in excitedly. “Maybe the Relic and Crest stone were kept apart to keep the other Elite families from using the Sword, after the war. Right? I mean, according to legend, weren’t the ten Elites granted their power by the Goddess as well? Just the same way you or me could wield Thunderbrand if we had to.”

“Hmph. An interesting theory, but it’s just so much supposition about the motives of people forty generations removed from us, not to mention the Goddess herself. Try to think about poor Marianne first, Claude, before you start getting sidetracked by your own private projects. And clean up this mess while you’re at it,” she finally added with a wave to the pile of books, unable to resist any longer.

“Sure, sure,” winked Claude, his brown face rueful. As he started closing books and stacking them, he looked up suddenly, his eyes now serious and intent. “Wait. Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Lysithea demanded, tired of his teasing games. Then she shuddered as she heard a dusty floorboard give a squeaking groan behind her, just beyond the massive metal globe atlas in the center of the library. It was impossible, ghosts were NOT real, and there was nothing there, it was just Claude playing another foolish prank on her…

A groaning, ethereal voice echoed through the library in a long, moaning sigh.

Somehow, she found herself behind Claude, clutching his uniform as she huddled behind him. “There’s something here--!” she gasped, her voice rising in pitch.

“It’s the library’s resident ghost,” Claude said, folding his arms. “And here I thought the three of us were all alone here…”

A dim outline of a figure moved into the shadows beneath the globe. Lysithea squeezed her pink irises shut from the apparition, waiting for Claude’s screams to begin. At least he would die first when the vengeful revenant attacked them...

“Good evening. Quite an interesting discussion you two were having there,” said the ghost in a smooth tenor. 

A rustle of movement beside her. “Oh! It’s Linhardt! Um, a good evening to you too. Uh, Lysithea, why are you hiding under Claude’s cape?” said another young male voice near her, this one with a hint of a tremor.

“I was not hiding,” said Lysithea hurriedly, opening her eyes and moving over to the desk. “I’m busy doing research, that’s all.” She opened one of Claude’s stacked books and started flipping through it at random, refusing to look at any of the three boys.

Claude and Ignatz both withheld commentary about their classmate’s behavior, but Linhardt had no such compunctions. “I’m sure whatever you found underneath Claude’s cape was fascinating, Lysithea, if not broadly applicable. So, the three of you are here looking for a way to help your classmate? Extremely commendable behavior. Unfortunately,” said Lindhardt, pausing for another gaping yawn, “you’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t see it that way,” smiled Claude, but there was a glint in his eye. “Research is always its own reward, after all, right Linhardt? Besides, I wouldn’t wager against Lysithea when it comes to anything magical or Crest related…”

“That’s an interesting challenge to consider, but let’s table it for now. I can tell you exactly why Marianne is feeling the way she is, although that knowledge is less likely to help you than you might think.”

“Really?” said Ignatz, his face boyishly transparent. “I mean...you’ve just got to help us, Linhardt! Any bit of information that we can use to help her…”

“Well, you see that’s the problem. I’m curious about one other thing, and hopefully Claude can answer it for me. Without the usual games and evasion, of course,” said Linhardt, his face seeming blank and uninterested.

“Hah, that seems easy enough. Go ahead, Linhardt. Hit me with your best shot,” grinned Claude widely.

Linhardt smiled lazily in return. “Why are you here, Claude?”

“Um...that sounds like a really obvious and stupid question,” Claude said without faltering. “I mean, why are we all here? Probably because our parents...or grandparent, in my case...forced us to be here.”

Shaking his grass green mane, Linhardt stepped forward and wagged a finger. “Ah-ah-ha, Claude...I want an answer. Why. Are YOU. Here?” he asked, dragging out each syllable, still smiling.

“Well, as the future leader of the Alliance, I think a good military education is in order, don’t you?” Another glib reply.

“Ah, but you’re not just the future leader of the Alliance, now, are you?” Linhardt’s lazy smile turned a bit sinister. “You’re an Almyran with a Crest, Claude von Riegan. Come now...it really wasn’t that hard to put it together.”

Claude finally dropped his affable facade, his face becoming something grim and dangerous, as Lysithea noticed from her peripheral vision. She noted the return of something she had seen only rarely in her House Leader’s eyes. A flash of an attentive and vast intellect, hiding beneath the mask of a class clown. She had made her own conclusions weeks ago that Claude was more than he seemed, but had respected his need for privacy. Just as he had respected her own, despite all of his relentless teasing. Who knows what could lurk in someone’s past, after all, she thought with a grimace of bitter empathy.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Linhardt had made the same conclusions about Claude. Which meant the Empire would soon know as well.

Her House Leader was struggling with this impasse, she saw, from his pursed lips and clenched jaw. Lysithea felt another flash of empathy. He wanted to be a good person, but also was afraid of exposing himself and his secrets. But maybe there was a way to accomplish both.

She set the book she had pretended to read down with a thump, and walked in front of the chagrined Claude and timidly observant Ignatz, while turning her back on the smug expression of Linhardt. She sighed dramatically for the benefit of the Black Eagle and said to her House Leader, “Claude...we don’t have any choice, do we? We need any help for Marianne that we can get. I think you just need to go ahead and tell Linhardt everything.” As she finished her artfully reluctant speech, she looked into Claude’s eyes and deliberately winked, hoping he would get the message, then turned to face Linhardt with the boys.

Claude sighed gustily behind her. She carefully watched Linhardt as Claude said, “Ok, fine, Linhardt, you got me. I’m the Prince of Almyra.”

“Aha! I was right,” smirked Linhardt. His gaze turned condescending. “There now, see? That wasn’t so bad. And since you showed me yours, I’ll show you mine. Marianne has the Crest of the Erased Hero. The Crest of the Beast--”

“Xyl’rup!” shouted Lysithea abruptly, concentrating very hard on the dual power sources within her, flinging forward a small wrist towards Linhardt’s face. The candles and lanterns of the library nearly went out as a smoking darkness condensed in the air before her pale hand and entered the surprised Empire noble’s nostrils, ears, and mouth. He tried to briefly fight against it, but the magical attack was too strong and too sudden. Linhardt collapsed to the ground as the windy darkness swirled away, the lights slowly brightening against the unnatural blackness.

“L-lysithea! Y-you killed him!” Ignatz whispered in horror. He looked visibly sick.

Claude had already stepped forward past her, quickly kneeling down to check on the fallen Linhardt. He smiled as he looked up at his classmates. “Actually, aside from the bruises he might have when he fell, he’s just asleep, Iggy. Nice moves, Lysithea, but won’t he remember our little chat?”

“That spell includes a brief disorientation,” Lysithea explained, waving at the snoring Linhardt. “I think if we put him back at his desk, the monks will catch him in here asleep again. He’ll be too busy being mad over getting extra physical training tomorrow for him to remember this as anything more than a dream.”

“You sly little…” Claude stopped himself, fortunately for his own sake, and grinned up at her. “Thanks. I’m glad I trusted you.”

Lysithea didn’t bother smiling in return, and turned to their classmate. “Ignatz, put down the book and help Claude get him into his chair. No, not on the floor, Ignatz, on a desk, like a normal person. Do I have to tell you how to do everything?”

With multiple apologies from Ignatz and some soft grunting from Claude, a rumpled and dishealved Linhardt was put back at his desk in the far corner of the library. The trio stepped back to examine their handiwork.

“Well, at least he’s in a somewhat normal position. He won’t wake for hours, and by that time, it will be morning,” announced Lysithea. “Now we can clean up and go to bed ourselves.”

Claude was eyeing both Lysithea and Ignatz from the shadows of the globe. “Um. Listen guys, about what I said…”

Lysithea folded her small arms and shrugged back at Claude. “It doesn’t matter to me where you’re from, Claude. I really don’t care what your title is or what scheme you’re up to...as long as it doesn’t threaten my family’s well-being.”

“I believe that, and you have my word I won’t let anything harm House Ordelia,” the self-confessed Prince nodded, and then both of them looked at a nervous Ignatz.

“Um...is it really true, Claude?” the young man asked shyly. He was sweating beneath his uniform, and his blonde hair was damp.

Claude nodded slowly, and stepped further into the light, so Ignatz could see his face. “Hey, it’s still me, Iggy. Claude von Riegan. Although the “von Riegan” bit is my mother’s surname, and "Claude" is a bit of...translation. My real name is Khalid al-Malik. My father is Aharon al-Malik, the King of Almyra.”

“Whoa...a Prince in disguise...really?” whispered Ignatz. He was getting lost in the romance of it all. Lysithea forbade to roll her eyes at his childish behavior.

“Yes, in disguise, but not for any particularly sinister reason,” explained Claude with reluctance, running a hand through his dark hair. “My mom was outraged when she heard about her brother’s death. My grandfather desperately needed an heir to secure House Riegan’s position as the head of the Alliance. My father thought it was a good idea to get intelligence on a foreign adversary. And...truth be told, I was simply glad for any excuse just to get out of Derbend. The climate there was becoming rather...poisonous, one might say.”

“Noble intrigue is the same the world over,” sneered Lysithea, shaking her white hair.

“So I’ve learned,” grimaced Claude sourly. “Imagine me, thinking Fodlan would welcome me with open arms, just because I have a Crest of Riegan, after all the crap I had to deal with in Almyra. Nope! To the Gloucesters, Hresvelgs, Aegirs, and Fraldariuses of Fodlan, I’m still just a half-breed outcast, just on the other side. Some of them are all right, like Dimitri and Hilda. I might be able to make progress with one or two of the others, but as far as I’m concerned, most of the nobles in Fodlan are just as crazy as the ones in Almyra.”

Ignatz visibly swallowed, then took a step forward. “Claude...I swear to the Goddess that I’ll keep your secret! You’re a good noble, and a good person at heart. I’m like Lysithea...I don’t care where you come from. You’ve always treated everyone in our class as fairly as you could. E-even me,” he said, his eyes shining behind his glasses. “And I’m proud to know you. Proud to follow you.”

“That’s enough, Ignatz. You don’t need to marry him just to keep a secret,” snarked Lysithea in reproach. She looked back at Claude, watching him brush his eyes for a moment in surprise. That was careless of her. Of course something like that would mean so much to Claude. Now she felt foolish...and a bit childish, she admitted privately to herself. “Claude...I’m sorry. To both of you. That was mean of me to say. And of course your secret is safe with us. But if Linhardt can figure it out in a month or two, it obviously can’t stay secret for long, can it?”

Her House Leader made an unattractive groaning noise, and said, “I’m aware of the color of my skin, Lysithea. I was just hoping I could pass it off like Lady Judith of House Daphnel. Fodlan and Almyran nobles do occasionally mingle, you know. But...I’ll admit, I’m not sure how widely known my mom’s existence as Queen of Almyra is here in Fodlan.” He glanced over at the sleeping LInhardt. “I should have known that the son of the Imperial Minister of Domestic Affairs would be able to put it together. Despite objections from the nationalists on both sides, the Empire still does quite a bit of trading with Almyra. If a single merchant or smuggler knows about the ‘White Queen of Almyra’, and here I am bearing a Crest of Riegan, and my grandfather only had two legitimate Crest-bearing children….” There was one more sigh and a shake of his head, but then he looked up to both of his classmates and grinned. “It actually does feel good to tell someone, though. But please, let’s not let it become common knowledge for as long as possible. I might get into a bit of trouble.”

Lysithea tried to maintain her serious demeanor, but she started chuckling at her House Leader’s words. “Claude, only you would consider being a secret Almyran Prince in the middle of a Fodlan military academy just ‘a bit of trouble,’” she giggled.

All three of them laughed a bit at that, and they started clearing the desks and putting books back on the shelves. The task was quickly done and soon they were standing at the entrance of the library.

“So...Lysithea...um, what did Linhardt mean about a Missing Hero?” asked Ignatz.

“Erased Hero, you mean,” she primly corrected the older boy. “But yes, that means Marianne has the Crest of Maurice. Unlike nearly every other Crest, this one is despised rather than celebrated when it manifests itself. It makes perfect sense she would think of it as a curse.”

“Wait, really? I’ve never heard about this Crest. Why is it a secret?” wondered Claude, his face intensely curious.

“Because the bearer of Maurice's Crest is said to transform into a hideous monster, one that feasts upon the blood of innocents to sate its endless hunger. Maurice was said to be the first Elite to fall to darkness, and Nemesis and the other Elites cast him out for his crimes, not knowing they would soon be corrupted as well. So there’s a lot of superstition here in Fodlan about that Crest that goes back centuries.” Lysithea paused in her lecture to shake her head in disgust. “I’ve read that entire families were burned at the stake by frightened peasants or rabble-rousing witch hunters. Husbands would kill their wives, and mothers would kill their own children if they suspected that they had the blood of the Beast Crest. I hope the grotesque irony is not lost upon you two.”

“Oh...I see. That’s why Marianne thinks she’s responsible for anything tragic that happens. She believes she’s the bearer of a curse, in the form of her own Crest,” said Ignatz in realization, biting his lip.

“And that’s why Linhardt was snidely hinting that knowing this information wouldn’t help. Because we either have to cure everyone else of their stupid religious superstition, or convince Marianne that she’s really not cursed despite her own Crest, which she can’t do anything about,” said Claude grimly, looking back into the shadows of the library where the Black Eagle was sleeping. He shook his head. “What a complete asshole.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Dimitri and Marianne start talking after her suicide attempt, a la A Silent Voice. Maybe she can return the favor someday.
> 
> In Dedue and Dimitri's A support, Dimitri says he bears scars from protecting Dedue. So I made the logical conclusion.
> 
> Rhea's dragonsleep is my attempt to stab at her...degeneration. As a canon FE trope, a dragonsleep was the best I could come up with as something she might avoid, while obsessing over mommy. Canonically in game, we know Indech and Macuil don't die when defeated and instead just hit the snooze button while giving up their treasures.
> 
> Catherine and Thunderbrand being secrets is the biggest Plot Hole Secret in the game. There's only so many relics, and only so many noble familes. Catherine's identity should be obvious, especially to Kingdom nobles.
> 
> Linhardt figuring out Claude would be obvious if they interacted, and I added Lysithea and Ignatz to the mix. This fleshes out Claude as well as gives his fellow Golden Deer something to genuinely buy into to follow and die for him. (Post TS, I think Claude fesses up all in non-GD routes to his buddies. Ignatz's quote at Gronder is: I fight for Claude's dream for the future. or something like that.)


	19. Dreams and Schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As you grow older, you’ll see white men cheat black men every day of your life,  
> but let me tell you something and don’t you forget it—whenever a white man does that to a black man,  
> no matter who he is, how rich he is, or how fine a family he comes from, that white man is trash.
> 
> \---
> 
> Harper Lee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter! I think the plot is almost in there...

Ch 18

Dreams and Schemes

They discovered Marianne in her room that morning. Trips was inconsolable, along with Hilda and Mercedes. Many of the other students, male and female alike, were in tears. Catherine, Shamir, and Byleth were summoned out of bed to cut Marianne’s body down, while Jeralt, Seteth, and Alois attempted to calm the students.

Even the brash Catherine was subdued, as she shoved the writing desk over near the corpse where she could stand and cut the sheet from where it had been tied. The chandelier had fallen; Marianne must have tried to hang herself from that first, before switching to the beam. It may have made a noise during the middle of the night, but everyone in the dorms had slept through it. No one had noticed.

_Stop it._

Byleth stoically grabbed one of Marianne’s cool thighs, with Shamir grasping the other one. Catherine swung Thunderbrand and the bedsheet ripped. The other two women quickly eased the stiffening body to the ground. Byleth ignored the moisture and stench on her hands that she felt through Marianne’s uniform. Ignoring the black face with the bulging red eyes and dark tongue, of what had been a sweet and handsome young woman just a few hours earlier, was a little harder.

_This didn’t happen. Stop it. Stop it NOW._

Shamir quickly moved part of the white bedsheet over the bloated face, and Catherine jumped down from the desk to stand by her partner. Wordlessly, she put a hand on Shamir’s shoulder where she knelt. Shamir placed her white knuckled hand on Catherine’s, still staring at the body, her face pale and her lips tight.

Byleth rose from Marianne’s side and stared at her hands. They were dirty, and she had to wash them. Even though Marianne was dead, you still had to do certain things. LIke washing your hands. She silently moved over to the dead girl’s washbasin. There was still water, fresh pure water, in there.

As she put her hands into the basin, the water changed to blood. Her hands were vivid red, dripping with iron wetness. They were drenched up to and past her wrists, with the viscous liquid flowing like waterfalls down her elbows.

“There you are, you bitch,” snarled a voice behind her.

She turned. Marianne, Shamir, and Catherine were gone. Garreg Mach was gone. Instead, a motley band of pirates, poachers, renegades, and bandits stood in their place. There were dozens, maybe even hundreds. The bandit leader from Remire that had attacked Edelgard, his ugly face smiling widely, stood at the front of the mob as their spokesman.

“Finally awake, you stupid cow? Look at the cute little mercenary cunt, all grown up to be a nice and pure Knight. Still proud of the way you cut us down? You finally got to kill people like us, just like daddy. You’d do anything to be daddy’s little girl, right? Including murdering all of us.”

Byleth ignored the crowd, ignored the blood. She glared at the ugly bandit. “It was war, you shitstain. I’m not responsible for the choices you made. For the lives you chose to lead.”

The bandit turned uglier, and meaner, if that was possible. “Oh no?” he chortled nastily. “You hear that boys!? We’ve got a fucking philosopher here. She’s not responsible for killing us!” A cacophony of hellish laughter rose up, as each man--as well as a few women--cackled and shrieked with mirth. All directed at Byleth. It was infuriating. It was deafening. She gritted her teeth through it all, refusing to cover her ears. She could take this. She could take anything they dished out.

A straw haired man in peasant clothing stepped forward, his chest still pumping blood. “My children were starving. I had to poach deer in m’Lord’s Forest. Otherwise my children would have starved. But you ran me through, even though I didn’t even aim an arrow at you. Why?” Byleth’s throat turned dry, and it was hard to breathe now. She had no answer.

 _Stop._ It was weaker now, more plaintive.

A red haired woman stumped forward from the press. She looked ill-used, ill-treated, yet still held a stiletto in her hand. Her throat was cut, yet her voice was still clear. “I was jus’ a slave girl that the pirates captured. I’d with the band since I was fourteen. They started treating me nicer when I stopped fightin’ back, stopped bitn’, and started givin’ me jewelry and things. Pretties for their pretty, they said. Then one day they told me to arm myself and fight back against those mercenary bastards, so I did. Maybe you could’ve freed me. Maybe we could’ve been friends. Guess we’ll never know now, right luv?” She spat blood on the ground before Byleth.

 _She attacked me. She tried to stab me so I killed her. It’s not my fault._ A weaker voice. It wasn’t her fault...

“That’s right,” the bandit leader crooned, watching how the accusations affected Byleth. “You’re not responsible for what you did to us, right? You fucking Ashen Demon!”

“NO!” Byleth shouted in pure denial at the screams and the laughter, squeezing her eyes shut, turning away, wishing _everything_ away. She could do it...she had done it before…

It worked. The dead were gone when she at last opened her eyes. She was alone in a grassy field, and the sun shone gently down upon her. There was still misty fog swirling around copses of trees and the occasional odd hummocks, but there was no one amidst the slowly rolling hills and sparse forest in every cardinal direction.

She wandered aimlessly through the warm field, feeling the grasses tickle her legs and hands. Insects scattered before her path, as well as the occasional small mammal. She looked behind her to see her trail clearly marked, a winding, half-straight path through the grass, her feet breaking stalks and bending shoots as she walked forward.

She continued through the field, wondering what was happening, why she was here, when she finally rose to the top of a slight gradient and looked below her.

Five figures awaited her in the field, each standing several yards apart from one another. They had made trails in the heath as well, although almost all of them were stained with red. She made her way to the nearest one, then started in shock as she drew closer.

It was herself, but...older. More sure, more confident, dressed in the shining and gleaming heavy white plate of the Church, complete with a white but bloodstained cape, with a bright red symbol of the Church of Seiros on the back. The not-Byleth gave a roguish smirk through a scarred face that was worthy of Catherine. “Hey, loser. Glad you could finally make it.”

Byleth felt only confusion at being addressed by herself. “Who...who are you?”

The Holy Knight laughed loudly. “Goddess, I can’t believe I was this slow only a few years ago. I’m you, you stupid...um, girl. Ha! It’s weird, having to talk to my younger, more innocent self. And I’m trying to be the nice one here. But you are what I was before I sided with Seteth and Lady Rhea. Before I decided to cut down anyone who disagreed with the Will of the Goddess. The secrets of the Nabateans had to be protected. Since I was Nabatean myself, it was only logical I side with them.”

“What’s a Nabatean?”

The smirk turned into a savage grin. “You’ll find out. Now, I’m done with you. I made my choices. I don’t regret any of them. Dimitri? He was long gone. He had to die. Claude? A cheat and a liar, who fled at the first sign that he would personally lose, after sacrificing the lives of every one of his ‘friends’ first. And Edelgard...she was simply riding out her death wish. I just happened to be conveniently nearby.”

Byleth turned from the not-Byleth, feeling ill. She ignored the mocking, sardonic laughter behind her. That was _not_ her. She stumbled forward blindly, tears rising unbidden in her eyes….

“That’s enough,” said another version of herself who intercepted her, this one in red and black armor, looking as deadly as an elegant scorpion. The red caped Byleth nodded to her with her heart in her eyes. “I understand. It’s hard to confront, but we have to make our own choices in this world. We have to do right by those who trust us. Who love us.”

She could not help but lean against the older woman. She seemed confident, and self-assured. She seemed approachable and likable. Yet as Byleth clutched her, the other woman continued speaking.

“We had to do it. Once we found out everything was a lie...everything...we had no choice. She wasn’t even human. And she had...done things...to us. Things that Trips knew, and Dad knew, but they died before they could tell us...but we saved Edelgard, Byleth. We at least saved her. And by saving her, we saved ourselves. And the rest of humanity.”

“What?” gasped Byleth, looking up at her own face, gazing down on her with deep empathy. She was horrified and revolted by the thought of her parents dying. Even if she was with Edelgard...the thought of a future without her father and stepmother repulsed her. She rejected that thought. Rejected it utterly.

Stepping back from the red-black Byleth in horror, she bumped into a third version of herself. This one wearing blue and white armor, clearly magical in the way it hugged tightly against the not-Byleth’s body, completely with a heavy white cape and broad blue pauldrons.

“You’ll see,” said this new Byleth, her older voice grim and angry, her face turned away. “He had been through so much, sacrificed so much, and yet they still tortured him and abused him. And he didn’t deserve it. Any of it. And we were willing to do anything to ease his pain. To bring him back from the edge. Even if it meant betraying...her,” the third older Byleth grated, swiveling her head to face her directly. Byleth cried out as she saw this version was blind in the right eye. Angry red scar tissue covered the socket completely. But that lone left eye seized both of her own easily. “Trust no one, Byleth. Even yourself. Especially yourself,” the blue Knight said darkly.

The version of herself had nothing more to say to her, and settled back into desolation as soon as she stepped away. Twisting around, she saw a fourth doppelganger, this one clad in jaunty yellow and black uniform armor. The figure waved as she approached through the grass.

“Hey,” the fourth older not-Byleth said, smiling easily and with some sympathy. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. Those three tend to not be very fair.”

“And you are?” asked Byleth thickly.

“Well, you could say I’m just a tit-for-tat girl,” said the fourth Byleth, her voice carefree. “I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine. It’s an attitude that suited a mercenary such as ourselves. We were never cut out to be a Knight. He helped us realize that.”

Byleth felt she knew who _he_ was. “So what are you now?”

“Eh, I dunno. I was just a merc with a knack for battle, but somehow he put me up as the Archbishop of Fodlan? ArchQueen? Empress? I don’t know. I can’t remember. But he promised that he’ll come back for me. We trust him enough to wait for that. He’s a nice guy, a good guy. And he always comes through, one way or another.”

“After killing everyone else,” said Byleth suspiciously to her counterpart. “Even Edelgard.”

The fourth not-Byleth shrugged and looked regretful. “Edelgard had problems. That’s the thing about relationships. You know someone has problems, and you think you can help them out. To help them change for the better. But sometimes people don’t want to grow. They don’t want to let go of the past. They fixate on something they think will change their past, or change themselves. But you don’t have to live life shouldering the burdens other people heap on you. He helped me realize that, and saw what a bad place I was in, when everyone started fighting over me. He told me what I had to do to break out of the cycle, and live for myself, not anyone else. So he’ll be here. Any day now. I trust him with my life,” said the yellow and black Byleth, her voice shining with confidence.

“No,” growled Byleth at this fourth version of herself, but the figure ignored her after that, staring into the distance. All four versions of her were looking into the afternoon sun at the horizon, waiting for someone to join them on the paths they had tread. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the grass, the sounds of the field. This was a dream. It had to be a dream. She was in bed, and she needed to wake up.

A hand squeezed her shoulder in a familiar fashion. A murmur of reassurance, as well as robes and the familiar grain pattern of a white staff enveloping her, hugging her. Sensations she had known since childhood, but she had never known how much she needed them, and how much she had missed them.

Trips. Somehow, impossibly, her mother was here with her. Byleth felt herself collapse, her limbs weak from the storm of accusations, of revelations. This was too much, and she needed her mother.

The arms held her up, stopping her from falling. They held her even as the tears came, hot and shameful and dirty down her face. Byleth coughed and gasped for air, just finally glad for the release, at last giving voice to the terrible things inside of her. Even as she cried, her mother held her through it all.

Somehow, time passed in this dream world, and Byleth eventually calmed herself enough to feel the brush of a strand of long hair against her head. She opened her eyes, surprised, seeing a bright green strand in front of her nose. Curious, she drew back to look at the figure that held her.

It wasn’t Trips, but was another version of her, with bright green hair the color of spring. This one was dressed in white robes, and held Trips’ staff in her hand. She smiled down at Byleth, her face full of tenderness.

And then one bright green eyebrow quirked up, all on its own.

Byleth laughed at that expression, smiling through her tears. She wiped her face and looked at the figure before her fully. “You appear different from the others.”

The green haired Byleth in white nodded and leaned on the staff.

She tilted her head at this counterpart. “So you’re not going to talk? Or tell me what the future holds? Of who lives or who dies?”

White shoulders shrugged, although this Byleth held a small, secretive smile on her face.

Looking behind her, she saw that all of the other versions of herself were still gazing into the distance, with each one of them still having her own dark blue hair, some of them having it tied in a long ponytail down their armoured backs....

She turned back to the white robed Byleth holding Trips’ white staff, examining her more closely in the golden sunlight of the field. “You’re not a fighter,” she said slowly. “You’re a healer.”

The fifth Byleth smiled widely and nodded.

“And you? Are you waiting for anyone?”

The healer-Byleth shook her head and vivid green hair, then appeared to reconsider. She smiled again and pointed to Byleth.

“I don’t understand…”

At that the healer Byleth suddenly threw up her hands, tossing the white staff behind her. “That’s it,” it said in Sothis’ childish voice. “I give up for now. You’re _obviously_ not ready yet. Honestly! This is just getting sad at this point…”

*

Byleth awoke with a gasp, her blanket and mattress damp with sweat, her skull aching. The morning sun was shining dimly through her small stone open air window.

A dream. Or a vision? She wasn’t sure what it had been, other than it had been strong and powerful. She still felt sad and angry from it, as well as confused. She also felt, for the first time in her life, fear. She was afraid of confronting those sights again, of seeing Marianne’s dead face, of confronting all of the dead souls of the people she had killed, or especially seeing herself as callous and indifferent to it all.

For once, she could not blame Sothis for this dream. The alternative versions of herself were too real, too familiar. She could feel each of them within her, as if they were waiting for the proper moment to assert dominance over her body and mind. The bloodthirsty crusader. The devoted protector. The scarred martyr. The cagey mercenary.

And then there was a different one...

Marianne. Another stab of the unreasoning fear went through her. She had to get up. She had to get dressed. She had to check for herself. Byleth tossed aside her blanket and arose from the bed.

*

Marianne woke up still feeling sad. She still felt like something was missing inside of her, which made her feel numb and incomplete. But at least she knew she wasn’t alone in the world now. Somehow, that made all the difference today.

Lorenz and Leonie had brought her her books, as well as an encouraging note from Professor Jeralt. They were nice and pleasant, if overly talkative, before leaving for classes. But the note had been surprising. The Professor had written that the hardest victory to have was the one over yourself. But if you managed to do that, everything else became easy. Marianne thought she understood his meaning, and wondered if the Professor could understand her in the same way Prince Dimitri did. Maybe she could tell them the truth. Eventually.

She was allowed to get up and move about as she wanted, but was not allowed to leave the students’ infirmary. That was fine. There was hardly anyone else here, except for Felix, the Knight watching her and a monastery nun in the role of nurse. They were polite enough to ignore her, and she avoided them in return. She didn’t want to talk to a friend of Prince Dimitri’s, anyway, after what had happened last night.

Instead, she sat by the window, occasionally watching the sun rise while she read from her magical textbook. She had always had a talent for anima and healing. Marianne had always felt happy at the times she had been able to heal a horse with thrush or lameness, or banish the worms and parasites away from the doggies and kitties. She could swear that the animals knew that she was responsible for making them feel better, and appreciated her for who she was. They loved her because she helped them, and rubbed against her without words, without judgement. They accepted her without question. It was so easy to understand, and to feel love for them in return.

People were harder, though. Sometimes people said one thing, but did another. She didn’t like that, or the way people communicated with each other, with looks and glances or faces that went by too fast for her to keep up. Looking at their faces, full of weird things, just made her sad and uncomfortable, because she couldn’t think of any way to respond. It was much easier to avoid them, or simply talk to the Goddess. Talking to the Goddess was easy, because she imagined that the Goddess was a beautiful white horse, strong and proud, but also loving and kind. She had gentle black eyes that you could just look at and know, without any of the confusion. The Goddess just knew, and just loved. That was so comforting. 

But now she realized Prince Dimitri was like that too. Once he stopped talking like a Prince, that is. Then his face was without the noble games, or other masked emotions. He was just like an animal. You could know what he was feeling just by looking at his face. He talked only to you, without looking at other people. He also _felt_ things, and you knew he was truly feeling them. It was reassuring to Marianne to know that there was someone like that. She realized with a bit of surprise that she was looking forward to stable duty today. She reminded herself that she would have to reassure Dorte and the others that she was not sick. Her animal friends could sense it when she was feeling too sad.

The door behind her opened and closed, but Marianne ignored it, feeling content to daydream about meeting the horses and pegasi this afternoon. She didn’t want to talk to a person at this moment. The intruder apparently sensed her mood, as she merely heard a rustle and the metallic song of armor behind her. Another Knight must be here to fuss over her, but Marianne knew better. The monks and nuns were kind, but the Knights had no patience for her now. She didn’t even have to look up to see their faces, because the contempt they radiated for her was obvious in their voices. Marianne supposed it was only natural when someone was confronted with such a burden like herself, a spoiled noblewoman who couldn’t even decide whether she wanted to live or die.

She tried to concentrate back on her textbook, but it was impossible with this rude Knight simply standing behind her, saying nothing. The sun rose even higher in the sky, until it was fully past the window. She would have to ask this person to leave her alone, but she was good at that, at least. It consisted of the majority of her verbal experience in recent years.

Marianne closed her textbook and got up, but was surprised to see who was behind her. Knight Byleth was standing behind her, tall and powerful in her white mail armor. She usually looked so proud, so strong. But now even her face was showing concern for her. _This is all that I do_ , Marianne thought in despair. _Even the strongest and best of the Church are being brought down by my curse. Oh Goddess, please guide me…_

“Excuse me, Knight Byleth. Did you want something?” she mouthed in a barely audible voice.

A nod from the Knight. “I wanted to spend time with you. And maybe talk, if you feel like it.” She waved her hand in the direction of Marianne’s partition in the infirmary. The stool next to it was empty. “I relieved the other Knight, so it’s just you and me.”

“Um. I’m sorry. But I don’t know if I feel like talking. I’m not very good at it,” Marianne whispered in a pleading explanation.

Another nod. “I’m not either. Maybe I can try talking first, and you can listen to me?”

“Just...listen?” Marianne looked up, surprised. “I don’t have to respond?”

Byleth’s shoulders clanked in a shrug. “Not if you don’t want to.”

This was too much. Marianne looked to the floor again. “You shouldn’t bother. I’m nothing but trouble. To anyone who gets close to me.”

A pause. “Does that include the horses? And the birds? What did you call them...nutpatches?”

“Nuthatches,” Marianne corrected automatically, slighting raising her voice. But that was silly enough that a small laugh escaped her. She immediately regretted it. “Oh, um. Lady Byleth. I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”

“I’m not offended. It was my mistake,” said Byleth, waving vaguely to the chair. “Mind if I sit next to you?”

“Err...ok.” To her surprise, the Knight stepped past her and settled on the floor, lounging against the wall opposite Marianne’s chair, unmindful of her clean white cloak on the stone floor of the infirmary. What a strange woman. Marianne sat down in her chair, her inborn noble posture unconsciously perfect, her textbook in her lap.

“What do you want me to talk about?” asked Byleth.

This was becoming rather overwhelming for Marianne, but she tried to play along. It wasn’t like she could run away. “Um. I don’t know. Anything you want.”

“Ok. I know you like horses. Maybe I can tell you how my Dad got me Canis? My horse?”

“Oh! Um. Yes, I would like to hear about that. She’s very strong and beautiful, but so well-tempered…” answered Marianne in a stronger voice, pleased with the topic.

Byleth smiled up at Marianne. “She is special, isn’t she? I guess you could say she was my eighteenth birthday present. We had just finished fighting another merc company in Gloucester territory…”

*

Manuela and Trips used the mid-afternoon break between classes and training as an opportunity to check on their charges. Both were still anxious about Marianne, not to mention eager to rid the infirmary of Felix’s dyspeptic personality. But what they found surprised them.

A monastery priestess and Flayn stood at the door of the infirmary. The young girl’s face was enchanted under her green curls. The other woman’s face was more guarded, but she motioned for silence to the two physicians as they approached and looked past the door.

Marianne was having an animated discussion with Byleth, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. “...most pegasi are hard keepers. Their diet has to be strictly monitored when stabled, or they quickly get colic and can no longer take flight. They’re very sad and vulnerable in such a state.”

Byleth nodded and said, “But don’t they need less water than most horses?”

“Oh! Only if they’re allowed to fly every day, and if the area isn’t too dry. They can find water much more easily than horses, since they have a much wider range. They can also dive through the clouds, and drink some water that way, you know.”

“Huh. I guess that makes sense…”

Most poets and minstrels sang wistfully or enviously of the time of childhood, bemoaning the loss of the childlike state of continual wonder of youth. Trips’ counterargument to such longing was that the wonder of a child was nothing compared to the wonder of a parent. Of rediscovering hope in the midst of loss. Of a future within failure. Of finding in something so mundane, so defiant, so stubborn...there was something inestimably precious. The sight of Byleth effortlessly speaking with an effusive Marianne was making Trips struggle to stay silent, even as tears started running freely down her face. The other women studiously ignored her vulnerability, but the strange child Flayn was soon looking up at her. Trips could not acknowledge her until the aberrant teen reached up and rested a small hand upon her own, covering the weathered skin and veins. She looked down into a pale face and mass of green hair.

“I would tell you that your daughter is very special. But I can see you already know that,” whispered the smiling child, patting her hand kindly.

Beatrix could only nod to her. _Yes. I know._

*

“Now exhale. Slowly,” instructed Shamir, looking at the painted circle in the straw dummy.

The archer attempted to do so, and released the bowstring. The arrow sped into its target.

“Nice shot!” complimented Leonie. A whistle of admiration came from Caspar, along with exclamations from Petra and Ashe.

“Wow...I did it!” glowed Cyril, his face shining as he lowered his bow.

“You did. Just remember that’s just one shot. The next hundred could miss completely. Keep it up. The rest of you get back to practicing,” ordered the pale archer, glaring at the gathered crowd. The knot of students moved back into their appropriate lanes for archery training.

Shamir looked over her charges with a critical eye, with most cadets adjusting their stance or grips properly with a glance of disapproval. Caspar required a verbal reminder, but his tenacity shone through as he continually improved in increments. That was fine. Everyone was different. Shamir noticed some lanes were empty; Bernadetta was not attending, of course, but also the majority of the Golden Deer, aside from Leonie. Ah, they wanted to support their emotionally fragile teammate this afternoon, Shamir reminded herself. That was fine too. Some people weren’t cut out for this life. Noblewomen especially. Although Fodlanders went on and on about their Crests, about what they could do or how powerful they were with their precious ‘blessings from the Goddess,’ without the proper mindset, a Crest was just so much untapped potential, just like anything else. Letting the sad little girl play with her ponies was the obvious solution.

A shift in air currents on the training grounds and a slight hint of forest and woodsmoke alerted her to a presence behind her. “Here to train with the rest of the students?” she asked casually, not looking behind her.

A dramatic sigh, then a deep voice intoned. “I see my stealth skills need work, so yes, it appears so.” Zarad stepped up beside her, observing the practice. “Although watching a Dagdan train an Almyran was interesting in itself.”

Shamir shrugged carelessly. “Kid’s got potential. I made him train with a stick with string for a month before I let him hold a bow.”

“And he put up with that?” Zarad raised his brows.

“Ye Gods no. He whined nearly daily about it. But I had to know if he was serious.”

Zarad grinned down at her. “Maybe you wanted to know if you were serious, as well.”

“Maybe,” Shamir allowed with a small smile. “Teaching at Garreg Mach has been more rewarding than I thought it would be. Although the pay could be better.”

“Ah, yes, that reminds me. The men have been grumbling for their reward for saving the royals. Extra work and toil and duty is fine for the Captain, Beatrix, and Byleth, but the rest of the men and I require sustenance beyond the spiritual.”

“I think Seteth is working on it. Soliciting ‘donations’ from the nobility and faithful requires time. I also believe he’s trying hard to hide just how bad the attack was from the nobles. Which makes sense.” Shamir raised her voice to bark at a cadet. “Caspar! Use your back, not just your arm, when you draw! Hold for a moment, then loose!”

“How long is a moment?” snarked back Caspar in irritation.

“Long enough for your eye to reacquire the target. Petra, help him.”

“What?! She’s younger than me!”

“And ten times better than you. Also, are you really talking back to me?” At Shamir’s cool inquiry, Caspar’s grumbling slowly ceased with the attentive encouragement of his classmate. Finally satisfied she had a moment, she turned and nodded up to the tall Almyran, who nodded back to her. He plainly wanted something, and she said abruptly, “Let’s speak behind the pillar.” Without waiting for a reaction, she strode a short distance away from the students behind the large stone support columns of the sandy training arena.

Zarad silently joined her a step behind her, but not so close as to be threatening in the shadow of the afternoon sun. He also pleasantly wasted no time on social niceties as soon as they were speaking out of earshot of the students. “I wish to beg a favor of you. In return, perhaps I can aid you in your search for the enemy that has infiltrated your employer.”

“I’m listening,” said Shamir, her face composed.

“You must tell me of your observations of Byleth. Ever since we came to this fairy castle, her demeanor has changed. We wish to know the reason why.”

Shmair snorted to herself. Was that all? Bluntly, she replied, “She’s growing up, being apart from you. Don’t take this wrong, but I think you people have been smothering her. I can tell how overprotective all three of you are about her.”

The Almyran grimaced within the shadows of the pillar. “We felt it necessary. She can be very...innocent, at times. But the world is not kind to such people.”

“Oh please,” said Shamir, exasperated. “She’s a Knight of Seiros now, and more capable than you think. The sooner she gets rid of any such innocence, the better off she’ll be.”

“She has a Crest,” said Zarad, his voice a low whisper.

That gave Shamir pause. Now she knew where the other mercenary was trying to lead her. Thinking of Byleth as another silly soft Fodlan noblewoman made her feel mournful for the waste of such raw talent. Hazarding a guess, she said, “She’s nobility?”

The man spread his hands helplessly. “I do not know. I can only repeat what my Captain has told me. It was discovered by the Blue Lion professor using his magical tools. But there is intrigue now concerning my young friend. I do not like it. I do not think she, or my Captain, are in positions to deal with it. So I must approach you, who can see situations...practically.”

Bowing her head, Shamir thought it through. This would take time, she quickly realized. The other Knights, and Rhea and Seteth, would not appreciate her sharing intelligence of one of their own with an Almyran, even if he was working for the Church of Seiros. But looking at him, gazing at her as frankly as she regarded him, Shamir decided he truly was as he seemed; a concerned friend who needed assistance from a fellow outsider. And although Byleth could be strange at times, Shamir admitted to herself she liked the young Knight. She was an interesting person.

Now if she could only pull this off without Catherine finding out…

Decided, Shamir gave another quick nod. “I can get you what you want. But you’re right, I’m going to need something in return. More than just a vague promise to help.”

The man’s lips quirked up. “Something to know if I am serious?”

She smiled in return. It was nice to finally deal with a fellow mercenary in this strange religious culture. “Something like that.”

*

Sylvain wiped his brow, trying to keep sweat away from his eyes. He wished he could take off his woolen uniform jacket, but His Highness and Dedue were being excessively formal today, with Catherine and Professor Hanneman observing them. No logical argument he could think of made any sort of impression upon the Prince and his huge man-bear of a retainer; even the innocent protest that they could take their jackets off, train, then put them back on after they were done with training earned him extra scowls.

“You need a break?” Ingrid cooly inquired at him, her ponytail tied into a topknot to keep it out of her eyes. If she was fatigued at all it did not show in her stance, her wooden stave still held in ready position before him. Nearby, Dedue was still grappling with Prince Dimitri. It was a credit to the large man that he was the only one in the class who approached the more slender Prince in terms of strength. Across the Knights’ training hall, Catherine was instructing Mercedes and Annette on their swordplay, while Professor Hanneman sat nearby, murmuring notes to a magical quill that wrote them into a nearby booklet.

Desperate for distraction, as well as unwilling to admit to his childhood playmate that he was indeed out of shape, Sylvain looked around and saw a familiar figure in the entryway. Felix was scowling himself, and walking with a shade of stiffness in a loosely buttoned uniform, but still was a welcome presence nonetheless.

“Hey guys!” he called out, waving towards Felix. “Look who’s back!” Activity soon ceased across the grounds as the other Blue Lions halted their training, and Sylvain eagerly rushed up to greet his oldest friend.

Felix’s sour expression only intensified as Sylvain approached him. “Don’t touch me!” he barked. “I don’t want to be sent back to the infirmary just because you wanted an excuse to get all feely. I can only watch for the next three days.”

“All right, all right,” smiled Sylvain at his shorter friend, grateful for a chance to rest on his training lance. “I’m just glad you’re back. Without you, things might get boring around here.”

“Hello, Felix. Did you learn anything from your behavior in the mock battle?” said Ingrid as she approached her childhood friends, a frown tugging at her lips. 

“I learned not to rush into traps. Did you?” he sneered back. Ingrid was on the brink of an angry retort when Mercedes, in the midst of handing out towels to her team, smoothly intervened. “Oh, Felix, do let me know if you need any extra healing. I’m not very skilled in sword fighting, but I do know how to do that, at least.”

“I’m fine,” said Felix in a more normal tone, unable to snap at Mercedes in the Professor’s presence. “But thanks for the offer. That old merc--Beatrix--isn’t a bad healer. At least she’s sober, unlike some other doctors I can name here at Garreg Mach.”

“Please refrain from spreading more rumours about Professor Manuela, Felix,” sighed Professor Hanneman, overhearing the remark. “We don’t need to go about and add to her troubles.” Catherine smothered a laugh at that.

His gaze dismissively passing over the tall forms of Dimitri and Dedue, Felix turned to Hanneman. “Professor. I would like some tutoring over the next three days.”

“Oh?” The bushy grey eyebrows of the ex-nobleman rose high in surprise. “May I inquire in what subject?”

Silently, Felix stepped backwards, and traced a sigil in the air, flexing his wrist. Sylvain felt the hair on his arms stand up as sparks suddenly traveled up Felix’s arm, crackling into life into a small collection of arcs in his palm and fingers. The swordsman maintained it only for a few seconds before his astonished class, before clutching his fist quickly, dissipating the energy.

“Felix!” gasped Annette. “How did you learn how to do that?”

“It was in a book Beatrix gave me. Something about Colloquies and Cantrips. It was ok,” Felix shrugged, shaking a stinging hand.

“Wait! Erasmus’ spellbook? Felix, that’s advanced anima conjuring!” the young girl exclaimed. She worriedly turned to her best friend. “Mercie, you might want to check him…”

“Oh dear. I’m afraid Annie’s right. But to learn how to do that so soon! Felix, you really are quite talented. Let me check your hand, please,” said Mercedes, handing her sword to Annette. Felix grimaced as he held out his right arm for the older woman.

Their Professor was over the moon at this display. “Truly astonishing, my Lord Fraldarius. To learn how to conjure so quickly! But unfortunately, that’s only part of learning spells. You must also incorporate the appropriate signs to protect you from the backlash of energy. Still, it’s apparent you have an obvious affinity for galvanic forces. I will be happy to teach you more,” said Professor Hanneman with a bow.

“Felix learning magic. Doesn’t that beat all,” laughed Catherine shortly. “Next thing we’ll be seeing is Prince Dimitri sewing or Sylvain settling down to become a devoted husband.” 

“Hey! At least one of those things is theoretically possible,” Sylvain protested to the Holy Knight.

“Dimitri sewing,” Ingrid said automatically. “Dimitri sewing,” piped up Annette with a firm nod. Felix nodded as well, his eyes taking wicked delight at his childhood friend’s chagrin. Mercedes blushed but said nothing as she laid glowing hands on Felix’s arm.

“Oh, come on, Your Highness,” said Sylvain, turning to his Prince. He wasn’t _that_ bad. “You know how awful you are at needlework. I mean, not that you couldn’t do it, it’s just if everything didn’t just break in your hands…”

“Like a woman’s heart in yours, Sylvain?” asked Dimitri smoothly and politely, amusement shining in his face.

It took him a second or so to recover from his Prince burning him that badly. “Ouch. Um, wow. Ok, I guess I deserved that. It’s barely been over two months since we started here at the monastery, and already my reputation is dead and buried,” Sylvain said with a loud sigh.

“You confuse me,” said Dedue, his frown more severe than usual. “You obviously do not care about your reputation, based on your behavior. Why would you then mourn its loss?”

His ears felt like they were starting to match the color of his hair. “Uhm. It’s ok, guys, you can stop now. Really,” muttered Sylvain, looking around the visibly entertained group of students, desperate for an escape. It soon came from an unexpected source.

“Guards! Guards! Help! Come quick! The Blue Lion Class is murdering one of their own! It’s horrible! All the blood, everywhere…” said a voice in a mocking shout.

Sylvain felt supremely grateful as a grinning Claude fully entered the training hall, flanked by Lorenz and Lysithea. Both of them had amused expressions on their faces.

“Good afternoon, Claude,” greeted Mercedes politely with a smile. “How is dear Marianne doing?”

“Better,” said Claude noncommittally. “Lady Beatrix and Knight Byleth are bringing her to the stables even now. We’re here to extend an invitation to anyone who wants to be there to support her. We don’t want to overwhelm her, but we can at least show how much we want her around, right?”

Deciding it was better to let his classmates take the forefront as they surged forward to pledge support, aside from Felix, Sylvain hung back with his friend to simply observe for a moment. Lorenz was trying to chat up Ingrid and Annette, but only having marginal success if Ingrid’s scowl and Annette’s uneasy shuffling were anything to go by. Dimitri and Mercedes were pestering Claude for more details on Marianne, with Dedue looming behind his Prince with a stern face. Lysithea was having an animated discussion with Professor Hanneman and Catherine, but he couldn’t read their faces because their backs were toward him. She must have been saying something interesting, though, because he could see both adults rock backwards in surprise at one point. Catherine was soon grabbing at the old Professor’s shoulder as she started whispering urgently into his ear. Sylvain was thinking of stepping closer to listen when he noticed Felix coming up to stand next to him.

“For a useless layabout, I’m glad you’re here doing _some_ training,” said Felix, eyeing him critically. “If you didn’t booze it up constantly with every loose woman in town, who knows what you could do?”

“After what I just went through, I’ll take even a backhanded compliment,” said Sylvain, happy for his best friend to be back up and about. “That was pretty impressive with that lightning, yourself. And hey, if you need some magic tips, be sure to come to me first, ok?”

Felix glared at his old friend. “Don’t tell me…”

Smirking, Sylvain held his right hand out to trace a sigil in the air, adding the appropriate countersign to prevent himself from being injured. A small flame burst into his hand, and he immensely enjoyed Felix’s expression as he playfully made it roll across his knuckles and dance across his fingers.

The swordsman quickly mastered himself. “And just when were you going to show us this particular talent?” Felix asked in disgust.

A flick of his wrist extinguished the magical flame. Gratified by the attention, Sylvain smiled and said, “That’s a long story, and it involves a girl I was dating when my father took me to Fhirdiad two years ago. She was a student at the Royal School of Sorcery, but _very_ pretty…”

*

Seteth stood at the Archbishop’s balcony, watching the scene unfold before him in the monastery stables below. A large crowd of students had gathered as the small forms Byleth, Beatrix, and Marianne took slow, tentative steps towards it. The young noblewoman appeared overwhelmed by the clapping and cheering of her classmates, but the considerate attention of Lady Beatrix and Knight Byleth aided her through it. Only a few students were allowed to approach the ill noblewoman, and the interactions were limited for the sake of her health. Most of the crowd dispersed after that, heading for the dining hall, although Seteth noted with interest that the tall form of Prince Dimitri lingered with his Duscar retainer to aid the young woman in her duties. Lady Hilda and Lord Claude stayed as well, their faint and distant chatter attempting to put everyone at ease. He nodded to himself. Such an outcome was about the best to be expected in this situation. He reminded himself to talk to the Abbess about which lay duties Lady Marianne could assist with in the cathedral.

In truth, Seteth was preoccupied at the moment, as his mind was still reeling from Rhea’s revelation the night before. In more than a hundred years, his sister had not Slept. Had not rejuvenated her mind, or her body, against the immense draconic power that lay within her. Her obsession with resurrecting their mother was driving her mad.

Seteth could not help but wonder if she already was past the brink.

He could unfortunately not discuss this with Flayn. His precious daughter had slept for over a thousand years, healing from the terrible damage from the fall she had endured when Nemesis had killed her pegasus beneath her. For the past millennium, Seteth had guarded his daughter’s comatose form, where she lay shielded from the outside world in a sacred vault, emerging only occasionally to guide the Church or keep current with local languages and customs. Her awakening in the past twenty years had been slow and difficult. She had grieved to learn that an entire age had passed her by, leaving almost everything and everyone she had known and loved in the past as so much ancient dust. He could not begrudge her grief, and understood her resentment of him. He was a different person now as well. He had not told his daughter of the centuries he had spent by her side, seeing to her needs, reading books to her small form, or the days where he locked himself inside the impenetrable and solid stone vault during times of war or unrest, simply observing her body heat in the darkness, listening to the soft sound of her gentle breathing. Flayn would completely understand the desire to never fall asleep again, for fear of missing a lifetime that could be snatched away in a single, careless moment.

And then there was the discontent with the Church of Seiros itself over Rhea. Archbishop “Rhea'' now had served for over fifty years, and the story to the faithful that she was blessed by the Goddess with long life and vigor due to her “miraculous” Major Crest of Seiros within her. But Seteth had noticed the current crop of bishops and cardinals across Fodlan were becoming suspicious and resentful of their unaging religious leader. Rhea should have stepped down by now, and used the years that a human could lead the Church of Seiros as a chance for rest. With the Crest of Flames being rediscovered, Seteth knew his sister would not even think of that option at this time.

Seteth could only pray that Rhea’s obsession would not prove to be their undoing...

“Good evening, Seteth,” said a voice behind him.

Shocked at the intrusion, the High Abbot quickly spun to see the Golden Deer Professor before him. Jeralt smiled easily at his reaction, although he seemed to be swaying slightly as he looked around the ornate marble balcony. “Place hasn’t changed much. I thought I could use this chance when everyone else was busy for us to have a little chat.”

Sniffing the air before him with more than human senses, Seteth frowned at the former Knight. “You’re drunk,” he accused. “I already have enough trouble trying to cure Professor Manuela of her vices. Must I start on you as well?”

“If you want,” burped Jeralt, in an equitable mood. “‘Scuse me. I’m just gonna sit on one of these benches, then we’ll talk. We need to get something straight between us.” He weaved unevenly to one of the stone benches before the decorative meditation pools nearby, but somehow managed to settle himself into it.

Stepping away from the balcony’s edge, Seteth stood before the new Professor, his frown now thunderous. “What topic could possibly you want to talk about while this inebriated? And for that matter...how did you even get up here in the first place! I locked the doors to the Archbishop’s quarters behind me!”

“Blame Rhea,” grinned Jeralt up at him from his seat. He started fishing in a pouch pocket on his belt. After a long moment, he displayed an old, tarnished, ornate silver key before Seteth with a leer. “It’s not my fault she hasn’t changed her locks in a hundred years.”

Caught off-guard, Seteth stared at the small object. The implications of that key were staggering. Seteth had known Rhea trusted Jeralt with much; the Knight-Captain had been the only Knight of Seiros Rhea trusted to transmit correspondence between the two Nabatean siblings. Seteth knew at once something drastic had changed when a young and eager Alois Rangeld had been sent to him with an urgent summons to come to Garreg Mach more than twenty years ago. He now regarded Jeralt steadily, and the other man glared back at him blearily.

“Don’t give me that look,” sneered the new Professor. “It’s easy to guess what you’re thinking. ‘How old are you Jeralt?’ ‘How much do you know?’ When you’re in charge of the Knights of Seiros for almost a century, have to change your name and appearance every generation, and knock boots with the Archbishop of Fodlan on a regular basis, well, let’s just say that you manage to pick up on some things here and there.”

“And just how old are you, Jeralt Reus Eisner?” asked a subdued Seteth quietly.

The former Knight turned Professor looked at the late afternoon sun, beginning to set over the Oghma Mountains. The man looked as if he wanted to spit. “I was born in Enbarr in Imperial year 1037 of the Wyvern Moon. You do the math. I stopped caring a long time ago.”

“I see. Rhea has already told me you were a recipient of her blood. But I must admit,” Seteth said, with a glance at the key, “I had no idea you and she were once this close.”

“She is good with secrets, isn’t she?” said Jeralt wryly, but his face darkened once more. “And that’s what I want to talk to you about. My daughter. My little Knight of Seiros. My little _Holy_ Knight of Seiros. With a Crest none have seen for over a thousand years. Quite the nice little trap the two of you planted for us, there.”

The tone of his voice was relaxed, but Seteth sensed Jeralt was becoming...dangerous. He also realized with an inward shock that he could not alienate this man. Rhea had somehow done so before during Byleth’s birth, and Jeralt had reacted by setting Garreg Mach on fire and fleeing with his child. With the secrets he might know from Rhea, Jeralt could set much more on fire throughout Fodlan than a bedroom in a monastery. Seteth was quickly beginning to realize he needed Jeralt’s support much more than the Professor needed his own. If an anticlerical noble had access to the secrets of an ex-Knight-Captain of the Knights of Seiros...

Blunt honesty was the only choice, he decided. “We did not know of Byleth’s Crest before Hanneman investigated, Jeralt. I give you my solemn vow that I have spoken extensively with the Archbishop on this topic. We _did not know._ We discovered it at the same time that you did, and even allowed someone you trust to investigate as well,” said Seteth, crossing his arms.

They stared at each other for some time, green eyes matching brown, and Jeralt finally looked down. “I almost believe that, Seteth. But now look at the position my daughter is in. She’s the Goddess Reborn. Or Nemesis Reborn.” He snorted to himself in a half-laugh. “It doesn’t matter which. Once news of her Crest comes out…” the man despondently trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

The High Abbot could well imagine the impact that news of the Crest of Flames appearing in a Holy Knight of Seiros would cause. Every nobleman in Fodlan would dream of catching this prize. There would be promises of marriage, land, gold, or nations to Byleth. War might even break out between territories as rivals sought to eliminate each other, over a prize not yet won, each noble dreaming of his House and heirs becoming the next “Kings of Liberation.” It was a wretched title that Seteth despised, but despite all of his and Rhea’s efforts, they could not erase that villain’s mark on history completely. But this meant even the most ignorant member of the laity would have an inkling of Knight Byleth’s significance. His previous misgivings over this ominous young woman bringing only destruction might well prove true. Seteth finally said, “The Central Church can protect you and your daughter.” Belatedly, he realized that was the last thing he should have said to Jeralt.

“How convenient,” commented Jeralt with arid sarcasm. He huffed in disgust and tore a hip flask from his belt. Fumbling with the screw top, he said, “Only _Rhea_ and _Seteth_ can shield my daughter. So we _have_ to stay here and protect the Church, whether we want to or not. Like I said: a nice trap.” With that, the man started draining the flask of its foul smelling liquor.

“Jeralt, please stop,” said Seteth, raising a placating hand. “I understand your distress. I may have a solution, if you wish to hear of it.”

Wiping his mouth, Jeralt squeezed the empty tin flask in his fist, crushing it, and tossed it behind him with a splash into the reflection pool, ignoring Seteth’s glower. “We can’t keep it secret. Claude knows. Who knows who else. Byleth didn’t know the significance of what it meant to have a mystery Crest. She’s probably told others, so it’s just a matter of time now. And if you order them into secrecy, it will get out that much faster. It’s inevitable at this point.”

“I am well aware of human nature regarding secrets. I see that you are also. But no, I have something different in mind for your daughter.”

“Fine. I’ll listen.”

Seteth looked to the balcony edge where the stables lay below. “We must carefully edit this truth…” he began to say.

Jeralt rudely barked a laugh. “Just like every other truth the Church gets its hands on…”

Clenching his jaw behind his short beard, Seteth held his anger at the interruption and continued. “As I was saying. We will maintain the air of mystery around your daughter. We will call it an unknown Crest, with possible undesirable side effects. That is not necessarily a lie, unfortunately, as you well know. A few of the more desperate noble families and merchants may wish to still consider it, but the uncertainty surrounding Knight Byleth will give the more powerful Houses pause. As the Central Church is considered the final authority concerning Crest legitimacy, we can use this to your daughter’s advantage. It will be up to her to handle the rest, and make her intentions plain, whatever they may be.”

Seteth could see Jeralt playing it out in his head thoughtfully. Finally he asked, “What about Hanneman? He’ll want to examine her more. And doubtless he’ll want to take credit for the discovery.”

“Professor Hanneman can be excitable,” the Abbot allowed. “However, he does respect boundaries if they are set clearly and firmly. I have set them around my sister and myself. More to the point, I will make certain he is aware of the gravity of this discovery, and how its eventual announcement will have to be coordinated with the consent of the Archbishop and her cardinals.”

“Which is why I’m talking to you instead of Rhea directly,” said the former Knight, his face now almost mournful. “I know you care about...well, your sister. But I’m not sure what Rhea cares about. Not anymore. I made sure she was occupied with a meeting at the Cathedral before coming here to talk with you.”

Peering at the man, Seteth was slowly realizing that the drunkenness might have been a pose. But then again, Jeralt had the advantage of Nabatean blood in him. Alcohol had a meaningless effect on himself. And he probably had the experience of decades of building up his tolerance, as well. Reminding himself of the subject at hand, Seteth said to the former Knight, “I understand your misgivings, even if I do not share all of them. And I understand what it is like to be concerned for more than just yourself. I was not eager to bring Flayn here to the monastery, yet she wanted to see Rhea once more after she was...well enough to do so.”

The Golden Deer Professor rose from his seat and nodded firmly at the Abbot. “I think we can trust each other enough, Seteth, to help protect the people we care about,” he said. Walking over to the balcony edge looming over the stables, he stared down at the small figures below. Seteth joined him as they watched his daughter assisting the students as they went about stable duty, cleaning stalls, walking horses in the adjacent exercise yard, and replacing feed and water and straw. Monastery handlers and farriers moved among them, while pegasus riders strapped themselves into their specialized saddles, readying themselves to ride their mounts through their evening flight.

The two men were silent for a time, watching the dim figures in the shadows of the monastery walls below as the sun slowly settled against the mountains. Claude’s laughter could be heard as Dimitri easily carried four square bales of hay, with Hilda’s verbose protests rising as a counterpoint as she put up an exaggerated struggle with merely one. Marianne and Byleth were hauling buckets of water to the troughs, as Beatrix stood by the nearby well, priming the pump by hand.

“I had my doubts about your daughter, but she appears to be adapting well to the life of a Knight. She has made a deep and lasting impression upon the students,” the High Abbot mildly observed.

“Saving the lives of royalty does that,” muttered Jeralt.

Another tense silence followed, then Seteth ventured quietly, “What will you tell your daughter?”

“What am I permitted to tell her?” said the other man bitterly.

Seteth almost said everything, but paused as he considered the desires of his sister, the Archbishop. But he did not wish for Jeralt to leave with ill-will either, and he could feel the man growing tense again beside him.

“Before I answer that, I believe I would like to hear the story of how you left Garreg Mach,” he answered, turning to face the former Knight-Captain.

Jeralt snorted to himself. “You’ve already heard it from Rhea, when we first got here.”

“I am beginning to think I would like to hear it from you, as well. I understand that those memories must be painful. I struggle with the memories of my own wife’s passing, at times. But I would prefer to hear it told from your perspective...to make certain that there are no inconsistencies,” Seteth said grimly.

The ex-Knight was surprised, although he hid it well from a human’s perspective. Meeting Jeralt’s gaze, Seteth gave a short nod. They were both committed now. For the sake of their daughters, they had to trust one another. From anything, or anyone, that could possibly bring them harm.

*

Lady Edelgard had wanted to linger by the stables as well after the outpouring of support to Marianne, clearly as an excuse to be near Knight Byleth, but he subtly drew her attention to a green haired figure he had noticed in his habitual scan of rooftops and windows, observing them from the top of the Archbishop’s quarters. Her Imperial Highness was disappointed to lose a chance to speak with the object of her fancy, but she was at least still self-aware enough to realize that the timing was poor.

Soon they were eating dinner with their House in the dining hall, where Ferdinand was being insufferable, as per usual. Linhardt was exhausted from his numerous laps around the monastery and could barely speak during the meal, after being caught falling asleep in the library again. Well, he could only smirk at such well-earned comeuppance. The man needed the physical exertion, anyway. A healer was useless unless he could keep up with his soldiers on the battlefield. Across the table, Caspar and Petra had apparently bonded during archery practice, and were speaking excitedly to each other, although his command of the Fodlan language was barely stronger than her own. Dorothea and Bernadetta both ate their meal next to each other in a subdued manner, with the commoner quietly informing Lady Varley all of the details she had overheard concerning Lady Marianne von Edmund. Bernadetta’s hair was looking much worse; it had obviously not been groomed since she had heard the news of her friend. Both of them were obviously feeling helpless in how they should approach the suicidal girl with their support.

Hubert allowed himself to reminisce for a moment during the meal, because contrary to whatever others might think of him, he did feel something for what that unfortunate noblewoman was going through. He had been in a wretched state when Lady Edelgard was taken from him ten years ago, during her interminable exile in Fhirdiad, and had briefly considered the thought himself when he had been dragged back to the palace by his father’s knights. But eventually he had brutally reminded himself that as long as he and Lady Edelgard still lived, even though they might be a thousand leagues apart, he was still her servant, and she was his mistress.

He had spent every waking moment in those long three years preparing himself for Lady Edelgard’s return. He had thrown himself into his studies, and by thirteen, despite having no Crest of his own, he had more skill and power at his fingertips than many adults who had studied sorcery all of their lives. 

It had been a joyous reunion when Lady Edelgard finally returned to the palace at Enbarr, under the care of her maternal uncle, Lord Arundel. Hubert had been surprised to see the man, as he had thought Arundel had been permanently exiled by Prime Minister Duke Aegir, but the Duke, his father, Marquis Vestra, and the other Lords of the Empire greeted him effusively, to the point of sycophancy. He had noted that there seemed to be something different about Lord Arundel, something imperious and fey that made Hubert instantly put up every mental shield he knew as he eyed the man from his place in the Imperial Court. The newly named Imperial Regent had merely smirked in his direction once, then continued speaking with his hated father and the other Imperial Lords.

Lady Edelgard had been delighted to be reunited with her siblings, of course, hugging and kissing each of them in turn, and for one last brief afternoon, the halls of the Imperial Palace rang loud with the laughter of children. Hubert had been merely content to see Lady Edelgard smiling and laughing, feeling secure in her presence once more. Then came the moment where Lady Edelgard was presented before the Emperor, as the Lords of the Empire went through with the puppet show of paying that powerless old man homage. Edelgard had attempted to embrace her father, but as the withered, royal arms hugged her, the man started weeping so profusely, so bitterly, that it had frightened the children. Hubert had even briefly wondered if his father had been right to seize reins of power from such a weak, pitiful man.

Of course, he now knew what Emperor Ionius IX knew at the time. The Emperor had not been weeping for his daughter’s safe return; he had been mourning what was soon to come

Strange, pale mages with unfamiliar accents arrived with Lord Arundel that day. Some were masked, while others hid behind cowls and hoods so deep in shadow they might as well have been. The morning after he was reunited with Lady Edelgard, he was immediately whisked from her side again, before they barely had shared one single precious moment of happiness together. His father turned him over to a dark robed mage named Myson, an albino freak of a man who reeked of musty earth and raw power. He thought he had been pushed to his limits before in conjuring anima, but it was nothing compared to what he learned that year.

There was magic that was the mere conjuration of the four elements; paltry evocations that were bound within the limits of the world itself. Myson was his harshest taskmaster yet, but he taught him the _true_ magic, REAL magic, the secret signs and sigils and invocations that could evoke the very essence of Time and Space, or probe the edges of Life and Death. Under such pitiless tutelage, Hubert found within himself a wellspring of power undreamed of by any living mage in Fodlan. During his brief moments of rest, or while he was recovering from another beating, he had wondered and feared if Lady Edelgard was undergoing similar training.

Hubert later found out that she had. He remembered his shock upon seeing the white hair…

“Hubert!”

“Yes, Lady Edelgard?” he replied automatically, cursing his lapse. He immediately reprimanded himself for his self-indulgence.

His mistress was gazing at him with a soft expression next to him and said quietly, “I usually do not have to call you to attention twice. Is something the matter?”

“Forgive me, Lady Edelgard. I was thinking of Lady Marianne’s burden...and it made me think of how difficult it can be to escape one’s...heritage.”

His mistress smiled indulgently at him. “And is it better to escape it, or to accept it?”

Hubert smiled back at the rhetorical question. “Or is escape merely another acknowledgement of acceptance? Such philosophical navel-gazing could last for years, couldn’t it?”

“Possibly. But a philosopher could do worse than gaze at his navel,” said Lady Edelgard, clearly enjoying herself for one moment. “After all, it is the place where they all come from.”

“Ah, ha,” he delighted in her wit. “Touche, Lady Edelgard. Your humble servant salutes you.” Hubert controlled himself, feeling a grin tug at his lips. It was not a...conventional relationship, he acknowledged to himself. Instead it was a melding of the minds, something purely intellectual without the burdens and minutia of bothersome and inevitably disappointing corporeal contact. Or perhaps they shared such rapport because they were merely the only family each other had left. There was hardly anyone left for them to care about, back in the Empire.

Now, if only he could convince Lady Edelgard she didn’t need a smelly commoner Knight of Seiros in her life…

As they finished cleaning up from their meal in the dining hall, his Lady touched him for a brief moment at his elbow. He instantly bent his dark haired head low for his mistress to quickly whisper in his ear. “You have two tasks. Deliver this missive to Prince Dimitri. It is an invitation for tea in the gardens at his leisure, after classes.” He could barely hide his shock as he pocketed the envelope in his uniform, but he governed himself in time. “The second is to check upon Jeritza, and make certain he is managing himself.”

Rising, he nodded once and went about his duty. Dimitri had not entered the dining hall yet; he was doubtlessly still lingering over Lady Marianne at the stables. Hubert slowed his strides as he exited the eating area and walked through the gardens, considering if it would be best to deliver this envelope in full view of witnesses. Then he remembered Claude might still be at the stables as well. The merest hint of an Imperial-Kingdom alliance would no doubt send the self-named “schemer’s” mind reeling. More eagerly now, his long legs propelled him quickly to his destination.

He arrived just as the two royal nobles were saying their good evenings to the pale noblewoman, with Knight Byleth and Lady Beatrix ready to escort Lady Marianne back to the infirmary, as other squires and monks continued with the care for the animals. The timing could not be more perfect. However, as he approached Claude and Dimitri, he nearly collided with a figure that stepped from the shadows that was taller than even he was, not to mention twice as massive.

“What business do you have with the Prince?” intoned the tall Duscarman blocking his path.

Ah, the Prince’s pet, Dedue. Only Faerghus noble would consider it in good taste to flaunt a reminder of his country’s genocidal ways by having it follow him daily. Or perhaps the lumbering vassal was a sign of the Prince’s guilty conscience, as if saving one soul for a life of abject servitude made up for the many other thousands that were put to the sword by his country. Whatever the relationship between the two men, it was fundamentally unhealthy. Unfortunately for Hubert, however amusing it would be to shred the man’s bulk apart with his magic and step over the steaming carcass to deliver his missive, he had his cover as an innocent student to consider.

Still, he could not resist one verbal barb. “Whatever business I have, I don’t see how it concerns someone of your...caste,” he smiled wickedly at the Blue Lion. 

“I am merely making certain that you are not a threat. Is that beyond your capacity?” rumbled back the dark skinned foreigner, not rising to the bait.

Hubert’s face became more reserved at this question. Well, that was interesting. In training his dog to bark and sit, the Prince must have taught it some rudimentary reasoning abilities as well. He filed that bit of useful intelligence away in his memory as he spread out his dark gloves hands out slowly, before reaching up into his doublet and pulling the sealed envelope free, his opposite’s dark eyes tracking his every movement. “A letter,” he announced, smiling coldly. “From Lady Edelgard. May I deliver it to His Highness?”

“What’s this, Dedue?”

Instantly the large man stepped aside with a nod of his head, and Hubert saw Dimitri, Claude, and Hilda approach him. This was shaping up wonderfully. Now to play his role…

“Excuse the interruption, Prince Dimitri,” he said with a low bow, before presenting the envelope with a flourish. “But I have this summons, from her Imperial Highness, for you to join her for an afternoon with refreshments. You may send a reply to her through me, at your convenience.” He held out the envelope with double-headed eagle seal on its wax, observing the suddenly still form of the Blue Lion House Leader. A long moment passed where no one moved, the sounds of monastery life seemingly shut out from their tableau.

The Lady Goneril was the first to break the tension as Dimtri gazed unblinkingly at the invitation. “Aw, it looks like the two of them really bonded from nearly killing each other in the mock battle! That’s sooooo sweet,” smiled Hilda with an exaggerated sniffle.

“Wait, I didn’t get one too?” Claude’s handsome face shifted into a dramatic pout. “But I was the one who took down Edelgard in the mock battle. The Imperial Princess should be paying attention to me, not Prince Dimitri! Oh, Hilda!” he moaned as he swayed in a derisive swoon. “It’s just not fair!”

“Oh, Claude, I know…!” She fell back against him and they leaned on each other.

“It will be easier for the Prince to reply without your common wit plumbing new depths of vulgarity, Claude,” smiled Hubert, pleased at the antics of the Alliance nobles. This was going better than expected.

“His Highness may need some time to frame his answer…” started Dedue from his place by the wall.

His retainer’s voice roused the ice blue eyes of the Prince to look up from their blonde crown of locks. Dimitri quickly took the envelope, meeting Hubert’s eyes, while biting off his words. “Yes. Of course. An invitation. I will accept, and I look forward to meeting with the Imperial Princess when our schedules permit. Now, forgive me. Dedue and I must join the rest of the Blue Lion House in the dining hall.” With stiff strides, the Prince of Faerghus brushed past Hubert, his brute of a retainer following in his shadow.

Hubert watched them go past, pleased by the display, as well as awed by his mistress. Whatever Lady Edelgard’s game was here, it clearly had rocked the Blue Lion Prince on his heels, and placed him off his balance. He turned scornfully to the duo of Alliance nobles who were now whispering to themselves by the garden wall and said, “So sorry to disappoint you, Claude, but you are hardly worth a moment of Lady Edelgard’s consideration. Enjoy your petty victory over her in the mock battle while you can.”

The Leceister nobleman had the gall to laugh in his face. “Hubert, I’m crushed by such cold words. And here I thought we were such good friends,” said the heir to Alliance with a mendacious smile. “But, you know what, I get it, I really do. I’m sure Edelgard and Dimitri have a lot of catching up to do. After all...family comes first, right?”

Despite himself, Hubert could not hide his shock.

“Oh, Hubert! You might want to visit the infirmary! You look really pale! Oh, wait, silly me, you always look pale,” smirked Hilda. She stretched out her arms with a lazy yawn. “I’m beat from all that work! Let’s go get some food, Claude.” With mock gallantry that made the pink-haired trollop giggle, the Alliance half-breed escorted her past him, tossing a wink and another false smile to the Black Eagle.

It took more than a few moments to move his mind past initial thoughts of murder. Somehow, those two Alliance dogs had stumbled across a secret only few were living to remember, and one that Lady Edelgard herself had forgotten. In this, Hubert had decided to be merciful, for it would merely cause his mistress undue suffering to know of her previous relationship with one of her primary targets. 

Unless...Dimitri had told her himself during the mock battle?

No, no, no. This would not stand. Hubert strode from the stables, through the gardens, and walked quickly to his room. He needed quiet to think, and to plan. Contingencies must be made for this dreaded ‘tea party.’ The last thing he wished for his mistress was to see her suffer even more. She had endured enough of that in Enbarr.

Caught up in plotting and counter-plotting, Hubert completely forgot about his second task.

*

Alone in his room, Jeritza stared dully at the small cameo locket he had kept throughout the years. At times, tears dripped from his eyes, unrecognized, unacknowledged. He was nothing; he felt nothing.

But now he knew _she_ was here. It had been so long, he had forgotten her...

He had not moved in hours. Time was meaningless. There was only life, and death. And only death made him feel alive.

But the memories…

Snarling, he ripped the thin silver chain of the cameo, crushing the small metal painting in his fist before throwing it across the room. It didn’t matter anymore. It did not matter!

He needed to feel alive. He needed to see something die. That was the only reality. His only reality. The tall pale blonde man went immediately to his large locked chest, unlocking it quickly with his private key, and began pulling out the pieces of dark armor, one by one, his long white fingers pausing once to lovingly trace the blackened death’s head image of the faceplate of his helmet.

As the Death Knight donned his armor, the crumpled picture of a young woman with pale blonde hair, with two young smiling children, lay forgotten beneath the unused writing desk.

*


	20. Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them.” 
> 
> -– 
> 
> Confucius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here I think I treaded the line between fluff and plot decently.
> 
> Why yes, I'm not going insane in quarantine. Why do you ask? *eye twitches*
> 
> Enjoy!

Ch 20

Bonds

Despite the mock battle and the near tragedy that had almost happened with Marianne, life at Garreg Mach soon fell back into a routine for the students and knights. Byleth’s official duties as a Knight of Seiros were surprisingly light, consisting mainly of daily chapel sessions in the Cathedral in the morning and afterwards lessons from Catherine, Alois, or another Knight of how to conduct herself as a representative of the Church of Seiros. Byleth thought the personal attention quite odd but enjoyed the boisterous Knight-Captain’s stories of her father’s younger days. Catherine was more reserved around her, but Byleth found she could easily bond with the older woman by sharing stories of their different campaigns and training together. They were surprisingly well-matched in swordplay, although Catherine was by far the better wrestler, easily bending Byleth into an armbar or a headlock within seconds of the swords being dropped. The veteren Knight also told her not to worry about her unknown Crest, and that the Church would handle it for her. Byleth was doubtful after hearing Claude’s stories, but accepted the explanation for the time being.

Byleth tried to make more time for visiting Marianne, but soon found out that the slight noblewoman was fairly mobbed with attention already. Claude, Hilda, Dimitri, and even Bernadetta were regular visitors to the young woman in the infirmary, with Trips quietly hovering over her patient at all times. The young noblewoman was often seen either in the cathedral, preparing the altar for services, or at the stables, where she eagerly assisted in any task that involved the animals. Byleth made every effort to smile at the sweet shy girl every chance she saw her, if only to prevent the horrible image she dreamed about from never coming true. She was delighted one day to see Marianne’s small beautiful smile in return.

The majority of Byleth’s afternoons were spent with the remaining students. Byleth was determined to show no favoritism between the Houses of her three friends, or be seen too much in the company of her father. She laughed with Claude and his friends at their bizarre antics during training, sparred incessantly with Dimitri and his company, and with Edelgard and her House she found herself...simply talking. Talking brainlessly until she was gently reminded of her duties.

She was humbled at first, but as she spent the occasional afternoon with the Black Eagles, she soon found herself unconsciously drawing closer to Princess Edelgard than was necessary during the times she was visiting. Byleth kept waiting for Hubert or Manuela to snap at her or report her behavior, but both of them studiously ignored the Knight of Seiros lingering by the Princess while she was training or performing chores in the monastery. However, Byleth soon found out that it did not prevent the other students from commenting.

“Ohhh, Edie and Bylie! The two of you look so cute standing awkwardly side by side!”

“Hey Edelgard! Linhardt says he needs to watch Knight Byleth train, so I’m gonna borrow her from you, OK?”

“Knight Byleth, thank you for the arrival. Lady Edelgard sings much praises of you, and I believe you are a better friend for her.”

“I am relieved that my future Empress has found such a reliable bodyguard! Lady Byleth, thank you from the bottom of my heart for protecting her in my stead. At last, I can focus upon my own studies and training without worrying about her!”

Byleth thought she knew what blushing was before these events, but observations such as these sent the flames in her cheeks and neck to heights she had never before experienced, which made it only more awkward. And thus she was amazed at Edelgard’s verbal skill in disarming the tension in these encounters, one by one.

“I know this might be hard for you to imagine, Dorothea, but two women can simply be friends with one another.”

“Why are you asking me, Caspar? Ask Knight Byleth yourself. I promise she won’t bite.”

“Petra, you have been good to me as well. I value your company and friendship, just as I do Knight Byleth’s.”

“Thank you for informing us about that fascinating tidbit, Ferdinand. If you are satisfied, then please continue with your training.”

After a few times of this, Byleth was pleased, but also felt herself growing...restless. She was extremely honored that Edelgard was defending their friendship to other people, but felt something gnawing at her, inside, making her feel agitated without cause. She could not put the feeling into words, but somehow, she knew she wanted to be more than just a friend to Edelgard. Byleth desired something more...even though she could hardly imagine what _more_ could possibly be.

With uncanny intuition, her short white haired friend seemed to sense her disquiet. As they observed the rest of the Black Eagle House caught up in their training in the practice yard, Byleth nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a small white gloved hand slide into her fingers. And brush them, ever so gently.

The contact lasted for less than a second, and Edelgard was already stepping forward to loudly reprimand Caspar and Ferdinand for a lapse in concentration once more. Byleth absently rubbed her fingers, even as she felt something similar to blushing steal through her. Except the flames were not centered on her face this time, but rather...within her.

She also wondered why she was sweating, when she hadn’t even started sparring yet.

*

Two weeks had passed since the mock battle. It was the middle of Harpstring Moon. Most of the students had gotten over their performance, or lack thereof, in the mock battle between the Houses.

One had not.

Ingrid was dripping with sweat as she practiced on the training grounds, but she refused herself a break, even though the sun had long set. She had been defeated on the field of battle, but what made her burn was the humiliating way it happened. No one had made any mention of it (aside from Felix, damn him), but it was only a matter of time before someone used her disgrace against her. Her Prince could not help her in this matter, nor did she wish to burden him even further. And Sylvain had surprisingly (and wisely) kept his trap shut about it. But what she told no one was how seriously she considered each proposal that was carried to her, at an expense her family could not afford, by pigeon or pegasus from her Lord Father. She had also told no one how often she imagined herself in the role of a disgusting noble housewife, just existing to belch out Crest-bearing spawn she might resent just as much as their father…but on the other hand, she did not want to see her own noble father and brothers reduced to poverty, and the Galatea name fall to ruin just because she decided to be selfish...

“You know, you really shouldn’t overdo things, dearie.”

The Galatean noblewoman spun to see a sword-wielding Dorothea behind her. In full armor. Ingrid wondered for a long moment at how the Black Eagle had managed to fit into that breastplate, before her face turned red at her own thoughts and the intrusion.

“Here to gloat, are you?” said Ingrid bitterly, gripping her lance tightly before her body.

The brown locks swayed as the beautiful woman shook her head slightly. “No,” she said simply. “I’m here to apologize.”

“In armor?” scoffed Ingrid.

Dorothea winked brazenly as her smile broadened. “Well, I’m also here to put you to bed. Forcibly, if I have to.”

“You can’t beat me,” growled the Blue Lion at her counterpart, knowing how ridiculous that sounded after what happened.

“Maybe, if you were at your best,” agreed the songstress. She shifted her stance on the sandy floor, her training sword up and ready.

Ingrid charged.

Dorothea parried the first thrust easily, but then had to quickly dodge aside from the second. The two women quickly exchanged attacks and counters, with Ingrid’s burst of anger quickly tiring her. The actress began pirouetting aside from the lance, moving faster and more elaborate than necessary as she twirled her sword around her body, as Ingrid’s moves became more and more sluggish.

“Aw, tired already, sweetie?” smiled Dorothea. She spun her sword over her head easily.

Ingrid gave one last hopeless thrust of her lance that Dorothea easily batted aside with downward slash--

\--which caused Ingrid to spin rapidly in the direction of the parry, bringing the lance quickly across her body like a lever--

\--and the full weight and momentum caught Dorthea on her opposite side, punching her off balance.

A quick renewed jab from Ingrid knocked the wind from her, despite her chestplate, another spin and wide arcing slash caused the sword to drop, and a final overhead swing of the lance batted the songstress to the ground.

“You were saying?” said a panting Ingrid, still holding her lance, but grinning triumphantly above the Black Eagle.

“Ow, is what I am saying,” groaned Dorothea, rolling slowly on her back. She attempted to rise, but her armor--or injuries--prevented her from doing so. “Can you help me up?” she asked plaintively, her brown locks covering her face.

Dropping her lance, Ingrid complied with the request, grasping the offered hand. Dorothea sat up, blowing her hair from her face with a gusty sigh. “You’re so good! I don’t get it…”

“Thank you for the compliment. But what don’t you get?” asked Ingrid, sitting down on the sandy floor herself. After winning, she could finally admit her fatigue.

Dorothea made an indelicate sound of disgust, waving in the general direction of the monastery. “You’re clearly in the top tier of students. You’re almost immune to magic. You can ride horses or pegasi with ease. You adapt. You think ahead. You never give up. You’re basically a perfect Knight already…”

“What’s this all about?! I’m nowhere near the level of being a ‘perfect Knight!’” protested Ingrid, flustered by all the praise.

“You should be,” said Dorothea, wincing as she probed her injuries. But then she looked seriously at Ingrid. “But you’re not. And I’m not. Because we’re not...boys.”

She didn’t really know what to say to that, but nodded anyway. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Softly, Dorothea started, “I...said some terrible things to you, Ingrid, just to win during the mock battle. And...I’m...what I’m trying to say is...I really am sorry. To say those things to a noblewoman…” Dorothea paused again and swallowed, looking away. “I don’t ever expect you to forgive me. Truth is, I’m having a hard time forgiving myself.”

Seeing the school beauty so despondent over her was just distressing, and Ingrid quickly said, “I wasn’t mad about that, Dorothea. Or about the magic. I just hate to lose. If you hadn’t beaten me, maybe I could have helped His Highness win the mock battle. You showed me how much farther I have to go in maintaining my focus and discipline.”

Dorothea was pleased by the forgiveness, but added, “But that’s just it, my dear! Don’t you ever feel like you're overcompensating?”

Defensively, Ingrid spluttered, “I don’t see why you need to criticize my training…”

“Ingrid,” said Dorothea gently, “I’m not. I guess what I’m just trying to say is...no one would question your decisions if you had been born...differently.”

“Maybe,” Ingrid conceded, thinking about it some more. Then she shook her head. “But Dorothea...I know what you’re talking about, but I’m happy to be me. Even through all of the marriage proposals, or the scorn I get for wanting to be a Knight...I think it has helped make me who I am today. If I had been born as a boy I probably would have just turned into another Sylvain or Felix.”

“Oh, perish the thought!” shuddered the actress in mock revulsion, and the two women laughed.

“And don’t worry about what you said to me in the mock battle. It wasn’t anything I haven’t heard before,” snorted Ingrid. “I’ve heard it since I was eight years old.” Her voice dropped to a mocking baritone. “‘Stop acting like a boy!’ ‘Put on some makeup!’ ‘Wear a dress!’ ‘You’ll never be a Knight!’”

Dorothea laughed loudly at that, her voice ringing over the training grounds. “Oh my! And here I thought I was the actress..!”

Ingrid laughed again as well, starting to feel more at ease with the Black Eagle. “I’ve learned not to overthink things, Dorothea. If it makes you feel better, then I accept your apology. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”

Strangely wistful for an instant, the actress said, “Even, huh?” But then the rakish grin was back as she slowly got up. “Thank you, Ingrid. I just...well. Just know that someone sees how wonderful you are. Even if no one else seems to notice.”

Surprised but pleased, Ingrid arose as well, moving to pick up her lance to hide her blush. “I don’t know what to say to that, Dorothea, but...thank you.” She reached behind her hair to undo her ponytail, letting her blonde hair, stringy with sweat, fall free. “I suppose it is time for bed…”

“Unless…”

Ingrid turned to see the songstress back in a training stance, her sword now in a two handed grip before her. “Best two out of three?” she smirked evilly.

The noblewoman felt her heart start to beat faster in anticipation as she returned the smile. She tossed her blonde hair back behind her head and raised up her lance again. “You’re on!”

*

_To my gentle and loving son, Ashe Ubert of House Rowe:_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health and cheer. Your devoted sister and brother miss their older brother dearly, but Bethany and Hans are both doing well and are growing like weeds. You will never know how precious you have made my days by allowing me to adopt all of you. You say I saved you that fateful day when I caught you in my library, but I tell you now, my son, it is you and your family who have saved me._

_I hope your studies at Garreg Mach are going well. I am firmly confident that you will one day be a proud Knight of the Holy Kingdom. Worry not about the cost of the tithe that secured your position among the Blue Lions. Hold up your head high, lad, and ignore those who will whisper against you. To me and my vassals, you have already proven your nobility._

_I fear--_

_There may be--_

_I am sorry--_

_Ashe...please forgive me. Emotions make this old Knight grow weak in his twilight years. But there is something I must do, and it cannot be undone. My faith in the Goddess and the blood of my eldest son demand justice. Archbishop Rhea must answer for her heinous crimes against the teachings of Seiros, as well as that filthy murderess who calls herself a Knight._

_Should trouble come to Garreg Mach, I urge you with all of my heart to avoid it. It has nothing to do with you, or your brother, or your sister. You are all faithful children of the Goddess, and I would have you remain so._

_You are my heir. All that I have in this world, and all that I am, is yours._

_No matter what may come, I will always be proud of you._

_Your loving father,_

_Lonato, Lord of Gaspard_

Ashe trembled as he read and reread the tear stained letter, his own eyes watering as he considered the contents. What was Lonato doing? Who was Christophe’s murderer? Was he really going to throw his life away?

No, his adoptive father had been proud when he was accepted to the Officers’ Academy. He had promised to write to Ashe soon, but nothing like this--! What was his noble stepfather thinking?

Maybe it was a noble thing. Ashe had learned to read well enough to know that there were some things that were not spelled out, but became obvious once you ‘read between the lines.’ Christophe had taught him that, as he gently worked Ashe through The Sword of Kyphon, the legend of Duke Kyphon and King Loog....

His poor noble stepfather. Ashe had no idea that he still carried this terrible grief. He remembered his stepfather had grown strange and cold when House Gaspard had learned that the Central Church had executed Christophe. Ashe had hardly understood the implications at the time, and only remembered that he was sad that his tall blonde stepbrother had been caught up in a net of conflicting loyalties. Caught between the Church and the Kingdom, Christophe had chosen his King, the grieving Lonato explained to Ashe. The former thief could understand that, at least. The Church of Seiros had opposed Loog and the Rebellion of Faerghus until the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. After that, the Church finally acknowledged the heroism of King Loog and Duke Kyphon, and granted its blessing upon the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. So even the Church could be wrong, sometimes.

Ashe folded the letter into a pocket of his uniform. There had to be someone he could talk to about this. It couldn’t be anyone in his House, he decided firmly. He didn’t want to force his classmates to choose to be disloyal to their own Houses and oaths. And no one in the Black Eagles of Adrestia could help him either. Noble rules in the Kingdom were bad enough. The rules for the nobility in the Empire were convoluted to the point of absurdity.

Maybe someone from the Golden Deer...

Finally determined, Ashe arose from his bed and exited his dormitory room on the ground floor, pausing to politely greet or acknowledge his fellow students and teachers as he walked to the classrooms. He was surprised to see Felix talking with Petra in the gardens nearby, but they were so engrossed in their own conversation he decided not to intrude, although it made him smile briefly at seeing Felix so...happy? Was that even possible? He also saw Ignatz and Raphael having an animated discussion with a red haired young woman in the gazebo. Ashe thought she looked familiar for an instant; then, he remembered he had seen her at the merchant stalls. Oh, that was...Anna, wasn’t it? Ashe was curious about the merchant himself, but his family errand took precedence.

He wandered slowly into the Golden Deer homeroom, the large golden banners on display making him feel uncertain. He had hoped to find someone like Lorenz, who might have deciphered the noble secrets within Lonato’s letter, or perhaps Lysithea, who had an uncanny knack of cutting straight to the heart of matters. Even Professor Jeralt could have given him some down to earth perspective, but he wasn’t here this afternoon for some reason. Ashe sighed in disappointment and was ready to leave…

“Are you lost or something?”

The voice behind him nearly made him faint with fright as he turned about. “Gah! Leonie! Don’t do that to me!”

“Do what? Ask you a question?” snarked the tall teen hunter, before she laughed. “It’s just me, Ashe. But you should work on being aware of your surroundings. If I had been an enemy, I could have taken you out easily.”

“I’m sorry, I was hoping someone...maybe someone highborn and noble to help me, but not in my own class. I just received a letter from my noble stepfather, Lord Lonato….” stammered Ashe, fumbling for the letter in his pocket.

“Must be nice being adopted by a noble,” muttered Leonie to herself.

“Um, well, I thought so too at first. I thought I was the luckiest boy in the Kingdom, but now...I think something’s happened. He had this delivered to me, by courier...and...it sounds like he’s going to war, over my stepbrother.”

“Whoa,” said Leonie in surprise. “A war? Really? With who? Where?”

“I’m not sure but I think...here. Against the Church.” Ashe waved his hand to indicate Garreg Mach.

“Damn, Ashe. That’s big. Really big. Can I see it?”

Wordlessly, Ashe handed her the letter, and the archer spread it out on a nearby table, a finger tracing the lines, before she looked up, her jaw set. “This is serious. Your stepfather sounds...final. Do you understand?”

Tears started to mist his vision, and Ashe muttered, “No...I hoped he wouldn’t do something like this…”

Unnoticed, Leonie’s face softened as she considered the silver haired boy. Then it hardened in resolve as she declared, “Ashe. We need to tell someone. Someone who can help you! ”

Ashe was emotionally overwhelmed, and felt utterly heartbroken. Thus he was surprised by the gloved hand of Leonie grabbing his own, literally dragging him from the classroom. “Come on. We’re going to find Professor Jeralt.”

*

“I am glad you are speaking with me.”

“Is that so?” Actually, he wanted to spar with her again. But somehow he couldn’t just say it.

“Yes. I was worried Bernie’s arrow did much damage to you.”

“I...concede it was a clever trap you laid for me.”

“Ah. So, it was when Bernadetta made hiding so no one would notice her. And she fooled even you!”

“She...did.”

A silence.

“Felix…”

“What.”

“I am sorry. I have heard tales of the Tragedy. I...I wanted to learn more of you. And it..was sadness.”

Another silence. Put so simply, even Felix was having trouble maintaining himself.

“....yes. It was,” he agreed.

Another long silence. He was no good at this. Maybe he should just leave...

“...Felix…?”

“...yes?”

“I think we are...alikeness. My father died to the Empire. Your brother died to Duscar. But instead, we do not mourn. Instead, we compromise, no? Despite our pain, we make ourselves stronger.”

“....fair enough.”

Another long silence, minutes seeming like hours.

“Felix?”

“What?”

“Will you walk with me?”

He glanced at her sharply at that. Petra was standing before him with her hand outstretched to him. Felix regarded it suspiciously. Did she even know what that might signify?

“...where?”

She smiled at him radiantly. “Anywhere. In the forest. In the fields. We will walk together, and feel the wind and the sun on our faces, and we will live life.”

That did sound...almost nice. And she had her sword, sheathed on her back. Maybe he could get another duel from her in the bargain?

He smiled back up at her before he remembered himself. “...fine.”

*

Jeralt thought he could actually take a day off. What a laugher that was.

His workload was increased, due to Shamir sending Zarad off on some kind of mission. He made inquiries, which somehow stirred up a hornet’s nest of activity, and he just dropped the matter. Whatever those two were cooking up, Jeralt decided it was best for him to stay out of it. Assassins always got huffy when they were forced to explain themselves.

Thus, he had to lean on Ignatz and Claude to make certain they were keeping up on their archery practice, and also to keep Claude out of mischief on free day (something Jeralt had found out was necessary in his first week of classes). And truth be told, for Claude, there wasn’t much he could really teach him that he didn’t already know. Instead, he just made them have increasingly elaborate archery contests against one another. Right now, they were taking turns shooting the still ripening apples and pears off the tops of trees in the orchards, to the rage of monks and farmers in charge. Jeralt noted that Ignatz was slower to draw, slower to aim, slower to keep up...but he didn’t miss. Not once. As long as he never lost his glasses, that kid was going to be a terror on the battlefield.

He hardly had sat down in his office when Leonie arrived with a young freckled Blue Lion in tow, and he knew at once it was going to spell trouble. Jeralt tried his best to be considerate; it was obvious that the young nobleman, Ashe, was nervous around him. And this letter from Lonato….hmm. He DID know what to make of that, but he didn’t want the students to know that. He doubted he fooled his former apprentice, but Ashe gratefully accepted his assurance that he would take this issue up with Lady Rhea herself.

Like Rhea would give up an asset like a Crest-bearing, Relic-wielding noblewoman from House Charon to answer for her crimes in the Kingdom.

Jeralt wanted to chide himself for his cynicism, but at the same time...he had seen too much. People revealed themselves by their actions, or how they spent their time. And the Kingdom of Faerghus had collectively responded to the death of its King by going absolutely berserk.

He reminded himself that there were Kingdom nobles that did hate the late King Lambert. Political reform in Fodlan was always a tricky thing; Houses that owned Crest bloodlines could be instrigiant and indignant to the point of breeding that non-compliance across generations. A King or a nobleman taking up the cause of the Crestless was often literally risking the existence of his House. Marriage proposals to heirs would dry up; border skirmishes or “bandit attacks” would increase, forcing the noble family to risk themselves or their heirs on the battlefield. And inevitably, the Central Church was forced to take sides and adjudicate peace between the survivors, or send its own agents out to “clean up” a noble House.

Lord Lonato was sounding like he was adding himself to that list.

Sighing, Jeralt wearily got up from his office chair with the incriminating letter and went to see the Archbishop. That took an hour, because Rhea was busy in a meeting with a conclave of priests, then was addressing a petitioner from the Northern Church on concerns of blasphemy in Fhirdiad, and finally was hearing another report from an abbess over some strange disappearances of young women within Garreg Mach Town. One thing he had not missed in the past twenty years was Church bureaucracy.

“What is it, Jeralt?” asked Rhea when he could finally approach.

“Something that requires privacy, Lady,” he said flatly, offering her the letter. 

Curious, she took the pamphlet and quietly absorbed the contents. Looking up, she nodded and they both silently retired to her office, shutting the door on the audience chamber.

“So, Lord Lonato thinks that trouble will come to Garreg Mach?” said Rhea, deceptively mild as she sat at her desk.

“I heard of his son’s execution by the Church. I imagine he’s still upset about it,” said Jeralt dryly.

“The Tragedy…” murmured Rhea softly, as she shook her head in sorrow. “It is terrible that this vile event still lingers in the hearts of so many. I suppose it will be decades before the aftershocks die down.”

“Why did the Knights bother with his execution to begin with? You should’ve just turned him over to the secular authorities,” mused Jeralt. “There’s something to be said for keeping your hands clean…”

“Faerghus...was in chaos,” said Rhea, reluctantly he thought. “It was all I could do to keep the Northern Church from participating in the slaughters that followed. And Christophe Gaspard’s crimes were not merely regicide. Now it seems as if the father is taking up his son’s cause.”

“Fine.” It was clear Rhea was being evasive, but Jeralt did not want to press his luck. “But I don’t think we want the Knights of Seiros marching on House Gaspard, slaughtering Lonato’s peasant levies. Can’t Grand Duke Rufus handle it?”

“Lonato, or whoever is standing behind him, has planned this well. The bulk of the Kingdom knights were but recently sent to Viscount Kleiman’s lands, in order to participate in another senseless massacre of the Duscar natives.”

“What about the Western Church?”

Rhea was lost in thought for a long moment. “I...have my doubts as to their reliability. The Western Bishops are barely civil with the Central Church these days. They may be even covertly supporting this rebellion. I am not certain.”

This was going from bad to worse. Jeralt started to pace, trying to play out the scenario in his mind. “So why now? This doesn’t make sense. Lonato waits four years after his son’s death, sends his _other_ son to attend Garreg Mach Academy, and then two months later decides to attack it?”

“Ashe may be a part of the conspiracy…”

“So he shows us this letter?” Picking up the parchment from her desk, Jeralt snorted to himself; then sobered as he considered it more seriously. Ashe seemed more decent than that, but still…

Rhea shook her head, this time with uncertainty. “Or he may be a pawn in his stepfather’s plotting. We will have to question him, unfortunately. I do not see how it can be avoided.”

Jeralt nodded at the necessity. “I imagine that our auxiliaries that were sent to Castle Gaspard might be lost.”

“I will write inquiries to the surrounding territories of their whereabouts. We must find the reasoning behind Lonato’s actions. If he has harmed them in any way, then his rebellion has already begun.”

“It’s absolute madness, though. Lonato must know he has no chance against the Knights of Seiros and the Central Church. He can barely field two thousand, maybe three if he has done a full levy of his region. But hardly any of them will be Knights…”

“He may be growing desperate. Catherine told me that Lonato wished to hire you specifically before the bandit attack. He may have discovered your identity, and wished to take advantage of an ex-Knight’s knowledge.”

That was an unstated question if he had ever heard one. The Professor of the Golden Deer blinked, then growled, “Think what you will of me, Rhea, but this was my home. This was her home. I would never have done that.”

“I believe you, Jeralt,” Rhea smiled sadly, but her expression quickly turned more grave. “We will have to muster the entirety of the Knights. We cannot let the townsfolk or the students be put at risk.”

Jeralt halted his restless movement. “That’s what they want us to do. This is too coordinated, Rhea. It’s too timely. Barely a month after a bandit attack on the three royal brats, and now this? Someone’s taxing us, trying to bleed the Church dry of resources before they make their true play.”

“I agree,” replied the Archbishop, and there was a note of steel in her voice that Jeralt well-remembered. “And if they are asking to see the full wrath of the Church, then I say we let these fools witness it.” 

Jeralt stubbornly held his ground. “Rhea. You’re being provoked. They’re practically inviting us to use that Blue Lion kid as a hostage. You told me the Central Church’s reputation is in doubt. If we send out the Knights to meddle in Kingdom affairs, gossips and rumour mongers and half the nobles of Fodlan are going to be blaming you and the Church of Seiros the very next day.”

“And you suggest we let a rebellion against the Church fester and linger?”

“No. I’m suggesting to let the Kingdom handle it, and let them get the blame when it goes south, as rebellions inevitably do. Send emissaries, by pegasus, to the other Houses of the Kingdom. Tell them they have bigger fish to fry than killing women and children in the hills of Duscar! If they want a real fight, then there’s one waiting for them in Western Faerghus and San Aubin. You told me before that you need to conserve your political power, Rhea, so for the Goddess’ sake, do not march five thousand Knights of Seiros into rebellious territory! It only makes Grand Duke Rufus appear weak and dependent, and you will only become more of a target!”

Rhea stood up abruptly, the large ornate desk chair sliding backwards until it hit the wall with a loud crack.

Jeralt blinked to realize he had pressed his luck.

The Archbishop approached him silently, her face serene and composed beneath her long green hair and tiara. Jeralt still stood tense as he eyed her warily. He had seen Rhea kill men with the same expression on her face.

“It has been over twenty years since anyone in my service has spoken that way to me, my old friend.” Rhea tilted her head. “Not even Seteth raises his voice with me.”

Jeralt nodded once, meeting her gaze.

“I have missed it,” she admitted quietly, then walked from the room, asking a nearby monk to bring Alois and Seteth to attend her.

Jeralt let out a slow breath, realizing he had fallen back into his old role without even thinking about it. Like a rickety wagon following ruts in a well-worn road. Was he still the devoted Knight, determined by love and duty to protect Lady Rhea? Even from herself?

No. He had done that for a lifetime and more. He had a daughter now, something more worthy of fixating on, and a bunch of misfit brats from the Alliance who depended on him now.

Rhea had a score of secret cardinals, a host of lesser bishops and priests, five legions of Knights, and numerous other figures to advise her. He wasn’t going to get involved with her governance of Fodlan anymore.

Besides, he thought grimly as he left the office, it wasn’t like it was his idea to be here in the first place.

*

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester was relishing the free time on this day. While training and instruction at the Academy was all well and good, there were so many aesthetic pursuits of the nobility that needed diligent effort as well. Maintaining his singing voice could be accomplished with choir duty, and training with the lance or sword made certain that his feet and legs were in the proper condition for elegant dancing. But poetry...ah, poetry demanded quiet for reflection, and the proper setting for his Muse to transpose the spiritual into sublime prose. Thus he was secluded in a corner bench of the gardens of Garreg Mach, allowing his noble mind to wander as he absorbed the power of this ancient environment. He wrote slowly in a small book, trying out various words and phrases, and enjoyed the exquisite agony of picking the right rhyme or imagery. Truly, there was no greater bliss than this.

A shadow fell over his page. “Excuse me for intruding.”

Lorenz looked up, not quite frowning (frowning causes wrinkles) to see who was bold enough to disturb him.

Prince Dimitri stood before him, looking quite transparent for a future King. Indeed, the man appeared positively bashful as he asked, “Lorenz, may I have a moment of your time? There is something I must ask of you.”

Ah. Now this was an opportunity to seize. He could well imagine the looks on peoples’ faces when he told them how the Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus had come to him, the future Lord Gloucester, for advice. Lorenz quickly put his quill and book away in an elegantly crafted leather satchel, while politely inquiring, “Of course, Prince Dimitri. What is it you wish to ask? I will hold whatever you may say to me in the strictest confidence.”

“Yes, I appreciate it,” stammered the blonde Prince, looking from side to side evasively. “It’s...it’s something quite sensitive, and I did not want to admit my shame to my classmates, but Sylvain mentioned in passing that you were the resident expert on the topic...although, maybe he didn’t phrase it in such laudatory terms…”

“My dear Prince,” said Lorenz, smoothly cutting off the man’s babble. How interesting. The Prince was positively aflutter about something. Was this about Lady Marianne? “I am delighted to aid you in any trifling way that I can. Please, just state your request.”

Wild, desperate blue eyes fixed on him. “Um, well, please do not think less of me...but Lorenz...can you show me how to have tea properly?”

*

An hour later, Lorenz unfortunately could not hold himself true to the Prince’s last request. He did think less of him. 

All went well in the first few minutes when they retired to Lorenz’s quarters. The Prince could be taught to sit at ease, be somewhat charming in discourse in his forthright manner, and could even name several flavors of tea that he preferred, but his favorite (when pressed) was chamomile. Chamomile was best when the flowers were fresh, and luckily, Lorenz had several in a jar enchanted with a mild preservation charm. He had no cakes or pastries on hand, but he did have a tin of candied mints that could serve in a pinch. Lorenz selected the saucers and cups and tea pot with the white and gold flower pattern, and gently thanked Prince Dimitri for his aid and concern over Lady Marianne while the tea was brewing. That was something of a mistake, as it did not at all set the Prince at ease, nor could he accept the accolade in good grace as Lorenz poured the tea. Thus Gloucester nobleman partially blamed himself for what happened next.

“Thank you, Lorenz. The...scent does have a relaxing aroma,” said the Prince, then reached for his teacup and saucer.

As he lifted the handle, the thin porcelain handle snapped off from the cup, spilling its contents to the floor. Dimitri was ashamed, and in his distress accidentally crushed the saucer in his other hand. Hot tea and shattered pottery covered Lorenz’ favorite rug, imported at great expense from Almyra. Chagrined for a moment, Lorenz could only stare at the scene as the Prince stammered out an apology.

Forcing a lighthearted chuckle, Lorenz waved all apologies and explanations away. So, the tales of the Prince’s great strength were not exaggerated. “Prince Dimitri, please do not feel any shame on my part. Here...I believe I have some napkins that we can use to clean up…”

The mess was quickly cleared away, aside from the tea stain ruining the delicate dyes in the middle of his rug. He would have to get it magically restored, and that would be a bother, but he was already committed to helping the poor Prince. Mournfully glancing at the remaining cups in his now-incomplete white and gold tea set, Lorenz considered his cabinet for a moment, then brought out three more, determined to teach Dimitri some grace and poise. They could try it out with empty cups at first.

Three more cleaned messes of shards and powder later, Dimtri was bowing his blonde head in complete humiliation. “Forgive me, Lorenz. This was wrong of me to ask of you. I am afraid I will be forever hopeless in these matters. I suppose I will have to cancel my upcoming engagement…”

Trying very hard now not to frown (because frowning causes wrinkles, he sternly reminded himself!), Lorenz at this point decided to admit that there were some things that even he, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, could not do alone. But the Prince’s despondency refused to make him admit defeat, especially since he heard that the Prince would be disappointing a potential future partner. And the Blue Lion House Leader had been so kind and chivalrous to Lady Marianne. That merited a reward, even if it cost him every teacup in his cabinet! But who’s opinion could he trust in this hour of need?

At that moment, voices drifted through his door from the hallway of the nobles’ second floor dormitory.

“Oh wow, Ferdinand, thanks so much for polishing all of that armor and getting the rust off! You’re such a sweetie!”

“I should thank you, Hilda, for being so attentive and respectful. I’m sure you will now do a fine job in the future by yourself!”

“Aw, thank you, Ferdinand, but I’m afraid it might not have totally stuck with me, even though you’re such a good teacher. Wait, I know! We can schedule another session next week! See you then!” A door slammed shut.

“Ah, um, yes, of course…”

Lorenz swiftly interposed himself between the Prince and the door, preventing the dejected man from leaving, and all but ordering him to remain seated. “Our tea party is not quite finished yet, Prince Dimitri. But please excuse me for a moment. I must consult with my fellow tea enthusiast on how to aid you.” With that, Lorenz opened his door and darted through it, leaving a bewildered Dimitri behind him.

Lorenz quickly marched down the hall, intercepting a muttering Ferdinand, who looked up as he approached. “Ah! Lorenz! You look uncharacteristically out of sorts. What may I do for you?”

“I am currently hosting Prince Dimitri of Faerghus for tea,” said Lorenz grimly. A brief, bald explanation followed, but the von Aegir nobleman immediately saw how dire an emergency this could be. A Prince of any nation in Fodlan that was unable to participate in teatime was...unthinkable. The unfortunate man would be a social pariah in the halls of nobility for the rest of his days, if they did not intervene.

Ferdinand immediately diagnosed the cause of the ailment. “Lorenz...we must be considerate about this. The Prince has lost his parents, after all, and he may have never practiced having tea at all in the past four years. It must mean very much to him that he wants to learn again. And as for his strength...we must be sensitive to his disability, and provide an alternative as his hosts.”

“An alternative to a matching tea cup? You would break up the harmony of the set?” said a horrified Lorenz.

“Better that than not being able to have tea at all,” Ferdinand declared sternly. “Let me get some things from my room, while you rebrew the tea for our guest. I will join you in a moment.”

Lorenz was so flustered he forgot to thank Ferdinand, but managed to hasten back to his room to prevent Dimitri from shamefully sneaking away once more. Seeking to put the Faerghus noble at ease, while emptying the teapot and rinsing and refilling it, Lorenz said with most empathy he could express, “My dear Prince, I am so sorry to not understand at first why this is so difficult for you. I am sure you have experienced numerous moments like this in the past. Many people in this world wish for great strength, but I believe you can see it can be a curse as well.”

“It does make me feel...isolated, at times,” Dimitri said reluctantly. “My trainers and companions would often scold me for being too excitable or thoughtless. There were occasions when I broke swords simply by swinging them too hard, and I nearly caused grave injury to those dear to me. Only my father really understood my turmoil. Like him, with anything delicate I was at an utter loss, as you can see. Sewing, painting, cooking…” 

“How terrible,” said Lorenz, with not entirely unfeigned sympathy as he set the water to boil with a silent cantrip. “I imagine learning your letters must have been exceptionally difficult.”

“They did...come later for me. But fortunately, our Court Magician, Archmage Cornelia, kindly enchanted a set of magical, unbreakable quills for me, as well as indestructible inkwell. I brought them here to Garreg Mach with me, and they are the only way I can write in class...or at all, really.”

The admission struck Lorenz hard, and his Muse was suddenly devastating him when he least expected it. This poor man...his entire life had been a search for control, over something he had no control over. It was shocking. It was tragic. It was...poetic. He needed to write this down...

However, Ferdinand entered the room at that moment, displaying his contributions. Dimtri was suddenly overwhelmed again, and protested at the attention, but Ferdinand distracted him effortlessly with his news that he had recently purchased a Shield of Zoltan, displaying the magnificent artifact to the Prince with a flourish. Dimitri was enchanted enough by the tale of the Prime Minister’s son’s acquisition that he did not notice Lorenz pouring the chamomile tea into two white porcelain tea cups, and one heavy and ornate silver goblet discreetly placed on the serving table by the Black Eagle. Pouring hot tea into something metallic repulsed Lorenz, but he noted that at least the Prince’s hands were gloved, and the man was passionate enough about the ensuing conversation that he noticed not at all the differing cup that he sipped from.

The poor Prince had suffered enough Tragedy, Lorenz decided, as he generously passed the tin of mints around the table. He would speak to Claude and Hilda and Lysithea about this. Prince Dimitri deserved an acknowledgement of his inherent nobility from the Golden Deer House, and it was going to be gifted to him by the thoughtful perception of none other than Lorenz Hellman Gloucester!

*

The preparation for the evening meal was going well. The potatoes and onions were roasting in the ovens, the potages and stews were on the stoves, plenty of hot water was available, and the roast birds and fish were being steamed, while he kept a close eye on their temperature... 

He tried not to look at the small, purple haired form that dashed around him in a white apron as he went about his duty. It was the Black Eagle of House Varley, Bernadetta. The girl seemed contrary to his existence, squealing and stuttering every time he spoke to her, but that was understandable. She must have heard tales of the Tragedy. Or else she was avoiding him out of self-preservation for her own noble status. That must be it. He could hardly blame her. It truly was better if all but his Prince avoided him.

He had been unprepared for the day when Prince Dimitri declared before the Court of Faerghus that he was his vassal. He could feel nothing but pride for his Prince that day, and a secret pleasure in his Lord’s acknowledgement of his worth. Dimitri had risked everything before every Lord of the Kingdom to defend one man from Duscar. His title, his blood, his life.

His Prince had bled for him. Dedue would never forget that fact, even as he never forgot the gang of illiterate thugs that called themselves Knights who had killed his family and people.

The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus could burn for all that he cared. By their own collective actions, they had revealed their natures.

But by a Prince’s action in Duscar, Dimtri had revealed his own. Since that day, he had never left his Prince’s side. At first, it had simply been a numb survival reflex, knowing that a pale noble boy’s whims were the only thing preventing him from ending up in another shallow grave. However, he soon saw how the Prince was dealing with his own terrible grief, and the young noble’s dawning horror to realize that Dedue was the only one from Duscar he would be allowed to save. He could not trust his own Knights and leave Dedue by himself in a camp full of blood-drunk soldiers, and he was physically restrained multiple times from leaving the royal tent by a full squad of Knights, on orders from his uncle the Regent, even as he sobbed and screamed at them to stop the killing.

In the days that followed, they were two young men clinging to a single spar in a raging sea of grief, and so they clung to each other to reassure themselves of reality in a world that had fallen to madness. They were sent away from Duscar with an escort, travelling far to the east, to the territory of House Fradalrius, along with a coffin. A small coffin.

He snapped out of his musings as he was chopping the carrots to see Bernadetta hovering over one of the massive pots on the stove; the one containing the Prince’s stew! She was on her tip-toes, liberally sprinkling something inside…

“Bernadetta,” he intoned, setting down his kitchen knife.

“Aiieee!! What?! I didn’t do it! Spare me!” she squealed in alarm, hiding a small jar behind her back.

“What are you doing.” A statement.

“No-nothing! Ha ha! Just stirring the soups, seeee! La-di-da, nothing to see here, Bernie’s just making sure they don’t scorch,” she sang out, her small frame sweating and trembling as she whisked the many ladles back and forth, one hand still behind her back.

“You are not following the recipe,” he said, moving to stand behind her.

She gasped as he came near. “Eeep! N-no, I m-mean yes, I am! Bernie would never disobey Chef Dedue! Uhhh...because...th-that’s a big De-don’t! Ha ha ha...um...get it? Sm-small joke…like me...”

“...may I have a taste?”

“--wh-what do you mean? No! You can’t!” she panicked again as she stared up at him, backing away. “Don’t put me in the oven! I’m gamey! I’m stringy! I’ve got worms!”

He could only be silent at that last remark.

“...eeeehmmmm…” whimpered Bernadetta, swaying back and forth.

He tried to nod as gently as possible. “Please stand aside.”

“Ri-right!” the small girl nodded frantically, trying to undo her apron with one hand. “Bernie is ss-so done for today! Ju-just all tuckered out! I’ll just head back to my room now…”

“Wait,” he asked, getting a clean spoon ladle from the rack on the wall.

“Um! Yes! Sir! Waiting! I will wait!” said Bernadetta, looking as if she was about to burst through her uniform while standing at attention...still with one hand behind her back.

Stirring the Prince’s stew gently, Dedue lifted the spoon and its contents and blew on it softly, hoping that it had not been ruined. When it had cooled enough, he tasted it.

Perfection.

That was the only word he could use to describe it. Whatever Bernadetta added, it only enhanced the flavor profile, adding new depths and aromas that might possibly satisfy his Prince. For years, he had bent his talents in the kitchen to help his Prince find the simple joy of food once more. The freshest ingredients, the most choice cuts, or even the most aged cheeses only brought a sad, wistful smile to Dimitri’s face. But this…this might finally be what he had been looking for all these years.

He set the ladle down on the counter and turned to the small form of Bernadetta. She looked somewhat blue in the face, holding her breath.

So he bowed to her like the lowest of servants.

“Bernadetta. Your skills in the kitchen exceed my own. Please accept my humble apologies.”

“AHhhhhh,” gasped Bernadetta for a moment, and he was silent as she regained her breath, before she looked up at him hesitantly and whispered, “I--I’m sorry...I just wanted to do something for Prince Dimitri for being so nice to my friend Marianne...and, I know it’s a bad idea, bu-but this was all I could think of…” she stammered, finally revealing a small clay jar she held before her.

“I will trust your judgement,” he nodded down to her, ignoring the proffered jar.

Pure shock. “Wh-what?! What does that mean?”

“Just that. You are a more talented cook than I. From now on, you may inform me on how to prepare meals, if you desire.”

“....ohhh, ohhhahhmmmm, G-goddess, w-wow! Umhm...ok, wow. Y-you really think I’m good enough?” she asked shyly, smiling for the first time in his presence.

“I do,” he smiled back at her, before considering a moment. Unfortunately, that made his face stern and stoic once again. “But...do you wish to be near someone of my skin? You will not wish to associate with a man of Duscar…”

“Um. What? Y-your skin? Wh-what? No no, I don’t have a problem with that. It’s big and smooth, with lots of muscles...b-b-b-but ahmm, forget I said that, hah hah hah!” Bernadetta falsely laughed and rubbed the back of her head while the other hand swayed nervously. “I mean...it’s just that you look so s-s-serious sometimes…or maybe all of the times...”

“I have been told before my face is frightening to most people,” he sighed with regret, closing his eyes briefly. “I can only apologize…”

“Well...m-maybe I can help you again? If it’s ok with you!” she hastened to add, before timidly lowering her eyes. “But...y-you probably th-think I’ve done too much already…”

“Bernadetta,” he said sternly. That made her jump to attention and hold her breath once more. He was going to have to put effort in modulating his tone around her. “I told you that I will trust your judgement. I meant it.”

Another gasp of air, but this time the short girl nodded once as she recovered. “Um...ok. Yeah! So...you wait right there. Bernie will be right back!” Setting her jar on the countertop, she sprinted away before he could coutermand her.

His curiosity finally getting to him, Dedue picked up the small jar. It was labeled ‘herbes du provence.’ He had never heard of such a thing. Perhaps it was used in Imperial cuisine? He uncorked it and gave a cautious sniff, and immediately identified savory, thyme, and rosemary...and there, that was oregano...but there were other scents that he was mystified by. Was Bernadetta an herbalist as well? He had to admit, his previous experiences with his Blue Lion classmates made him doubt her proficiency. But here was a talent that complimented his own in the kitchen.

Bernadetta returned just as quickly as she had left. “B-back! Umm...here!” she said, thrusting something white up towards him. “I-I made it for you, f-for your birthday, but...um...you can have it now! And...I hope it's a good fit...but you can throw it away if you think it’s too silly…”

Handing the jar of spices back to her, Dedue solemnly accepted the gift. It looked like a cleaning cloth, but one side was puffier than the other...

Recognition dawned. “Ah.” he said, then opened it up to place it on his head. It was a perfect fit.

A chef’s hat.

“Does this help my appearance?” he asked as he smiled down to Bernadetta.

Another shy smile from Bernadetta, who was turning red beneath her purple bangs as she swayed, this time in happiness. “...um. Yeah. Yeah! It...it kind of does, actually.”

*

Catherine stormed through the halls of Garreg Mach, full of all the righteous indignation she could muster, which was more than most members of the Church, including the cardinals. Thunderbrand seemed to match her mood, and was glowing a fiery orange on her back in its shoulder sheath.

She barked at a trio of students in her way, and they fled before her wrath. A pair of nuns in the middle of a walking prayer were rudely shouldered past. Beatrix and Marianne, on their way to the stables, wisely stepped aside long before she passed them, although the older woman glared at her as she stomped by. Catherine ignored her, single-mindedly focused on her goal in the Knight’s quarters.

Shamir’s door.

She barely restrained herself from breaking it down. Instead, three hard slams into the wood with her gauntleted fist would do. Even then, the door nearly shook off its hinges.

Barely five heartbeats passed, and Catherine had her fist raised again, when the door opened and the Dagdan woman stood by it, cooly assessing her up and down, before saying in her flat voice, “Catherine. I’m not in the mood.”

“Then you had better damn _get_ there! What the hell have you done?” she snarled, her anger almost making the words inarticulate. She moved to push past her partner and enter the room.

Instantly the edge of a dagger was at the skin of her neck, the keen blade nearly touching the veins and arteries, forcing Catherine into absolute stillness. Shamir’s eyes were as cold as a glacier as they met her own. “I warned you to never touch me unless I asked you first. I highly suggest you calm the fuck down. Now.”

The tension between the two women stayed charged for an instant longer, before Catherine nodded slowly and carefully stepped back. She closed her eyes and took a long shuddering breath. And another, while clenching her fists in rhythm. Finally her blue eyes snapped open again, her fury now turned to smoldering resolve. “May I come in?” she growled.

Shamir held her eyes as she flipped her dagger back into its sheath. A single brusque nod. “You may, if you can prevent yourself from shouting. You raise your voice at me again, and I’ll toss you out on your ass, Relic or no Relic.” She stepped aside from the portal.

Catherine was still trembling with anger, but she managed to enter the bedroom and quietly shut the door behind her. “Tell me about the Almyran.”

“Cyril’s training is coming along well.”

“Don’t--” Catherine almost shouted, but she stopped short at Shamir’s raised brows, and continued at lower volume. “--don’t fuck with me, Shamir. Jeralt’s corporal. Zarad. Where did you send him?”

“On a mission. He just got back.”

“You should have cleared it with Seteth. Lady Rhea. Alois. Anybody with authority.”

“It was a private thing.”

“I’m sure it was,” said Catherine sarcastically, grinding the words out. “Care to now inform the rest of us?”

“First tell me how the hell you found out. I thought I had covered all my bases.”

“Blame Jeralt. He was looking for his corporal when he had missed too many archery training sessions for the Golden Deer.”

“That big dumbass. He told me he was free this month.”

“That’s what you get.” But Catherine’s voice softened and she pleaded, “Why didn’t you tell me at least?”

Shamir stretched into the air, before sitting suggestively in a chair. “I figured it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

Catherine ignored the archer’s attempts to distract her and scowled down at her. “So where is your best friend Zarad now?”

“In the dungeons,” Shamir smiled up at her.

Now she definitely had to turn around to avoid being distracted. That fucking smile was a killer, and Shamir knew it. This woman might be the death of her...literally, she acknowledged, rubbing at the fine bloody scrape on her neck. Her anger was slipping away but Catherine forced herself to maintain it. It was her duty to Lady Rhea to get to the bottom of this. “And why is he in the dungeons?” she said to the wall. 

She heard the chair scoot back as the younger woman stood, seemingly all business again. “He’s there with an old friend of ours. Let’s go and I’ll show you. And if you think I’ve been a good little Knight--” the smile returned as Shamir stepped close and whispered into her ear “--maybe I’ll ask for a reward.”

Catherine consciously forced her knees not to wobble. Nobody, not even Lady Rhea, had this effect on her. By the Goddess and the Five Saints...

She managed to nod to her partner, intrigued despite her earlier rage, but led the way to the dungeons. Following Shamir’s deadly saunter was the last thing she needed to see right now. Past the Knight’s Hall, past the graveyard, they walked until they entered the vaults. The two Knights then took a small inconspicuous door hidden the shadows, away from the well-lit entrance to the main vault. Down, down, down they went on unevenly cut stone stairs, with the dark passages becoming alarmingly narrow and claustrophobic. They opened the door at the end of the steps, and Catherine impatiently unsheathed Thunderbrand and let its glow light the way, not bothering with striking up a torch. Nodding to the single bored Knight on duty in the relatively bright watch room below ground, they passed by heavy-iron reinforced doors and deep oubliettes in the heavy stone walls surrounding them, some of which had feeble voices raised up in pitiful begging. Both Catherine and Shamir ignored the sounds of misery.

At the first intersection, she muttered to the woman behind her, “Where?”

“Second cell on your left.”

The one where a torch was lit on a sconce by the door. That made sense. Nodding, she moved towards it, hearing muffled noises with the distinct sound of fists against flesh. Testing the door, she noted it was unlocked and looked to Shamir for confirmation. The Dagdan smiled evilly and she inclined her head.

Catherine opened the door to the interrogation cell, seeing the large form of Zarad in travel stained clothing causally beating a robed prisoner with a black hood over his face. Gagged moans echoed from the hood as the prisoner struggled feebly against the heavy manacles that bound his limbs to the far stone wall. The Almyran paused in his blows as the lurid orange glow of Thunderbrand filled the room, shining brighter than the dim candles within.

Seeing Catherine with her sword drawn, the big man froze momentarily. “Um...I’m just following orders…?”

“You are,” said Shamir behind her. “Sorry about this. She was using it for light. Is he softened up enough?”

“I think so. But you told me I would have an hour with him,” said the Almyran to Shamir, a pouty frown on his scarred face as he moved to the side.

“Change of plans,” said Shamir easily, moving to the opposite side of the prisoner. She gave a cruel smirk to Catherine, her hair and face appearing devilish in the light of the Relic. “I think my partner wants a turn as well.” With that, she yanked the hood off.

A man of medium height and a pinched, mousey look turned pleading eyes up to the faces around him. When he looked past the glowing sword and saw Catherine, the brown eyes went wide with terror. The prisoner thrashed about, attempting to shriek words through the gag bound tightly across his jaw.

Catherine’s eyes narrowed with vicious delight. She was definitely going to reward Shamir for this. For a week. Hell, maybe even for a month. She thrust Thunderbrand’s tip into the stone floor, the sword Relic piercing rock as if it were sand, and casually strolled forward until she was eye level with the prisoner. “Well, well, well...Professor Masterson, I presume.” She grinned humorlessly as she leaned near his bruised face as he whimpered. “Your former students in the Golden Deer House have missed you.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to only use explicit language when I think it's in character. For some reason, it's totally in character for Catherine and Shamir and their relationship.
> 
> Poor Dimitri. You know you have it hard when even Lorenz pities you. Part of it is his trauma, though, as I think Mercedes supports show. 
> 
> Wish the game explored Jeralt's deep ambivalence about Rhea some more. Also please accept my poor efforts to stab the pile of lukewarm mashed potatoes that is Fodlan politics into a cohesive form.
> 
> Lonato still cares about Ashe. But even if Ashe warns the Church, that is an equally desirable outcome, as we well know.
> 
> I know some people loathe Comedic!Bernie, but that scene was fun to write. She'll grow up, I promise.
> 
> @blamedorange made ART for ME! I LOVE IT! 
> 
> [I LOVE IT!](https://twitter.com/telsiree/status/1273537552243396610/photo/1)


	21. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.
> 
> \--
> 
> Corinthians 14:8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super fun chapter. Enjoy!

Ch 21

Doubts

The dark form slipped past the Knight guarding the stairs, the noise of a simple tossed pebble easily distracting the armored figure from the movement behind him. The second floor hallway was dimly lit, but he carefully padded past the slight glows he could see behind Professor Jeralt’s door and Professor Hanneman’s door. Those two were night owls, like himself. A quick glance past the corners showed the T intersection was clear. To the left were the Cardinals’ conclave chambers; slim chance of getting into those. But his main goal was to the right.

The library of Garreg Mach.

Previous experience made him hesitate; who knew who could be lingering late at night amidst the towering bookshelves of the massive, multi-story room. But his dreams demanded he find answers. And he was going to find them here, in the center of power of the continent of his mother’s people.

A light was coming down the hall. He slipped into an alcove holding a stained glass window, shielding his face so that the light would not reflect off his skin, and trusting in his ability to blend into the shadows. The slow tap, tap, tap of a cane indicated it was Tomas, the Head Librarian. He waited patiently for the old man to pass, ignoring the protest from the muscles in his arms and legs as they held a contorted position.

The past two weeks had been nervous ones. He had been convinced that he had taken an extreme and foolish risk in trusting Lysithea and Ignatz. But they stayed true to their oaths, acting no differently in public with regards to him and his secret. Except maybe Lysithea seemed to snap at him less, waiting to hear him out first before she spoke, while Ignatz smiled and nodded at him frequently with perfect trust in his eyes.

Maybe he had been going about this all wrong. To trust someone, you had to have a relationship. To have a relationship, you had to know them. And the reason his classmates weren’t trusting him was because they didn’t know him.

It must be his royal upbringing in the courts of power, he decided. Nobles paraded about with innumerable masks, false smiles, and insincere gestures and flattery. That was expected, and those were the rules. You never played your true hand. Never admit. Never confess. Never trust. Always make it obvious you were hiding something. Good rules to live by, amongst kings and queens and rivals for the throne, with a dagger behind every back and poison in every pocket. Mom, at least, had coached him relentlessly on how he was expected to survive amongst clan gatherings and royal feasts in Derbend. His father, forever disappointed in his smaller build and shorter height, had once looked down his nose at him and declared that he might never be King, in front of all the clan leaders of Almyra. All but declaring open season on his own son.

When he arrived at Garreg Mach, Edelgard, Dimitri, and Rhea all seemed to wear the same masks he had previously seen. So it was easy to slip into the facade of another ne’er do well noble with a shady past. But then he met people who refused to wear masks. He had mistrusted some of his classmates at first, thinking that they knew it was a game as well, and thought that they were all wearing masks of their own. He was wrong. It had amazed him to see people completely comfortable in their own skin, like Leonie and Raphael, who freely acknowledged their faults and their desire to grow past them. Amazed, and more than a little jealous.

And then there were people like Byleth and Captain Jeralt. They were strange, but they weren’t wearing masks either, as far as he could tell. Along with that sassy healer and the renegade, they were like a scrappy band of heroes from an old legend, fighting for no one but themselves and their own morals. But their origins were a mystery for another day.

He turned his head and listened in the dark for a long moment. Tomas had passed him by, and the corridor was completely still again. His hand against the walls, he guided himself gently through the darkness until he reached the library doors. Rattling the latch, he noted in satisfaction that it was locked. Good. That should mean nobody inside.

Reaching into a belt pocket stuffed with cloth, he withdrew a key shaped exactly like the one Tomas had used just minutes before. Sometimes it was just tragic how people left their keys unattended in their rooms. Where somebody could sneak in, make a clay mold of it, and slip out in less than a minute. He unlocked the door and slipped quickly inside, his nerves jangling at the creak of the rusty hinges as he shut the door behind him.

It was pitch black. But he was alone in Garreg Mach’s library, the single greatest repository of knowledge in Fodlan. The thought made him a bit lightheaded.

He had memorized the layout, but still moved slowly and carefully to where he knew the closest lamp would be. It wouldn’t do to shatter some glass and leave evidence of his presence behind. He undid the glass bulb from the wick, sniffed it to make sure there was still oil, then reached into another thick pocket for a flint and a small blade.

It took more than a few scrapes, but eventually a spark struck the wick and he had light.

Time to do some reading.

The lamp leading in his hand, he slipped past the rope barrier at the stairs to the upper story restricted section. Normally only bishops, cardinals, and Professors were allowed up here, along with the library staff. He moved quickly as he could between the dusty volumes, hating every sound he was forced to make or the tell-tale swipes he was making in the dust. Clearly no one had been up here for a long time, but that couldn’t be helped.

His work was quick and mechanical, but he was delayed by the restricted section being even less organized than regular library. Eventually, though, he found what he was looking for. An authoritative book about Crests. And Relics.

And...a dragon? No, _dragons._

He stared in fascination at the open page of the musty tome beneath him, the large ornate illustration captivating him despite the dim light. There was the Goddess and the Five Saints...so not just a pentology, but a hexology, he noted...with the largest star in the night sky representing the Goddess and her bounty of life, in the summer...but then five lesser stars beneath it, with one white dragon and four black dragons representing them...very interesting. With a start, he saw that there was another layer of deep symbolism associated with each beast and its associated star as well. One was for earth, one was for air, one was for water...

This was going to take time to absorb. Decided, he closed the oversized volume and quickly secured it to his back with long leather straps he had brought just in case for this purpose. It was time to go. He was going to feel much safer reading this in private.

He quickly adjusted the bookshelf the best that he could to hide the fact there was one less book, slipped silently down the stairs, and returned the lamp to its original placement, extinguishing the wick with a quick turn of the knob. A quick creak of the door and metallic clink as he relocked it. Now to get out of here. Back along the wall, slowly and carefully in the dark...except it wasn’t that dark now…there was a faint light in the intersection...

Voices. He cursed to himself. Where could he hide?

“...I do believe she is one of us.”

“...Flayn, I have nothing to say to you on this matter. Please keep your observations to yourself. I promise that all will be revealed in time.”

“...it is quite obvious you are hiding something. That only makes it more suspicious, you know.”

“...and if it is quite obvious something is being hidden, then it should be equally obvious that there is a good reason not to pry. You have but recently Awoken, Flayn. There is still much for you to learn...”

“...which I could do, if you allowed me to enroll into the Academy…”

“...that would only put you at more risk…”

Seteth and his sister, Flayn. Shit. _Shit._ They were blocking his path to the stairs, lingering near the Archbishop’s audience chamber. And Seteth had a...what did they call it? “Nose for trouble.” “Eyes in the back of his head.” “Like he could read my mind.” The High Abbot’s awareness and senses were legendary among the students of Garreg Mach, reputed to border on the preternatural. He did not want to test his stealth skills against them.

“...Flayn, go to your room…”

“...but I don’t want to…”

“...now, Flayn. This is not a debate. Go!”

And just as he thought of it, Seteth had sniffed him out. Was this the Gods telling him he needed to bathe more often? He looked wildly in the dim hallway around him, doubting simply hiding in an alcove would work this time. There had to be an out. There had to be an option.

Gambling it all on a wild guess, he tried to open the first door to his right, just as a beam of light nearly rounded the bend of the hallway.

The Gods were with him. The door was unlocked, and he closed it behind him quickly, blessing his fortune that the hinges did not creak. Professor Manuela must have them oiled regularly. And the Professor herself was in her regular stupor on her bed, curled up with an empty bottle next to her. She was sound asleep in a nightgown, snoring like a Beast in its lair. As long as he didn’t step on the myriad other empty bottles on the floor in here, he was safe. Seteth’s sense of propriety wouldn’t let him intrude on a woman’s bedroom in the middle of the night.

He leaned an ear at the door, listening. Footsteps approaching. Pausing, near the door. And then very hastily retreating, with a distinctly scandalized tempo to their pattern. A door further down the hallway quickly slammed shut.

Claude grinned to himself. Tomorrow’s battle between Professor Manuela and Father Seteth was going to be epic. He could imagine the look on her face when the High Abbot all but directly accused her of sleeping with a student, and her shocked and outraged denial would be completely genuine. Now to get his bounty safely back to his dorm.

He made it back to his room without further incident. The forbidden book was quickly secured in a hiding place beneath his other scattered open books and maps strewn all over every available surface in his room. Who would look for it in this mess? Satisfied, he quickly stripped off his black clothing and gear and returned them to his footlocker. A look out his window showed that it was almost dawn. Time to start the day!

A towel wrapped around his waist, the Golden Deer House Leader was soon on his way to the saunas and baths, whistling a triumphant, appreciative song to greet the rising sun.

*

Linhardt knew he was forgetting something important. It was most irritating and distracting, like there was always something on the tip of his tongue. It invaded his dreams, troubling him from naptime, and preoccupied his every waking thought, disturbing his reading and research. It was terribly bothersome, and it had been going on for weeks now.

Finally, he remembered.

The Black Eagle House was left at loose ends this morning when a furious Father Seteth had confronted a bemused Professor Manuela and summoned her from the classroom. They had no idea what that was about, but the shouting between the two could be heard all over Garreg Mach. Without a lecture for the morning hours, the students improvised as best they could manage. Bernadetta immediately fled back to her room. Ferdinand and Petra were deeply immersed in a hypothetical wargame of Adrestia and Brigid versus the forces of the Kingdom and the Alliance, consulting their maps and moving small colored stones representing Knights and legions. Dorothea and Caspar had gone to look for someone to explain what was going on with Professor Manuela.

This gave him the chance to speak with Edelgard, especially since what he remembered concerned her recently acquired white armored, blue haired shadow, Knight Byleth.

The Imperial Princess and Hubert were having some kind of argument in whispers in the corner of the classroom, but each halted and regarded him with thinly veiled hostility as he approached. “We are in the middle of something, Lord Hevring. Your presence is not required,” said Hubert in a near hiss.

“I do want to be as far removed from any conspiracy involving the two of you as I can possibly be,” agreed Linhardt easily. Both pairs of eyes narrowed at him suspiciously at that. This already was exhausting. And Hubert always wanted to be oppositional simply for the sake of his self-image. “But I just remembered something that Princess Edelgard might wish to know. It concerns her ah, shall we say, friend. The Knight of Seiros.”

“Speak on, then,” said Hubert, looming over him with folded arms.

Linhardt merely slid a lazy gaze to the shorter form of the Princess.

“Just a moment, Hubert,” she said. “I believe I can handle myself alone with Linhardt. If he falls asleep on me, you may toss him into the river with the fish.”

“My Lady,” said the dark haired mage with a bow. With a final glare at Linhardt, he strode from the classroom.

“Such a tense man,” Linhardt said, shaking his head. “I do believe both of you would benefit from a week or two of vacation. You could go to the mountains, or out in the countryside, or down to the beach…”

“Linhardt. If you have a point, I suggest you make it,” said Edelgard crossly.

“Oh. Right. Yes,” he yawned. “Your friend, Lady Byleth. Apparently she really is a Lady.”

“And just what are going on about now?” demanded his short future Empress.

“Just that. Lady Byleth must be nobility. She has a Crest.”

“What--?!” exclaimed Edelgard, shocked out of her poise for once. Heads turned as Ferdinand and Petra looked up from their game. The Princess grabbed Linhardt by the collar of his uniform and nearly lifted him into the air dragging him further in the corner, bringing them eye to eye. “Are you absolutely certain?” she whispered harshly.

He tried to shrug, but that was difficult at the moment. Edelgard’s interesting reaction was making this entirely worth it, however. “As certain as someone can be when they were told by the person in question. It came up right before the mock battle. Caspar and I were discussing how she might have killed that dire wolf.”

“Th-this doesn’t make sense,” said Edelgard to herself, letting go of him. She appeared to be lost in thought. “I haven’t sensed anything from her…”

Linhardt’s eyes widened at that. “Ah-ha. Lady Edelgard. So you have Crest empathy as well?” he smiled.

Edelgard looked distressed at her lapse, and the violet Imperial glare was immediately back upon him. “That is something of a state secret, Linhardt. It would be wise, for the sake of your health and well-being, not to share it. With anyone.”

“Any state secrets are safe with me, Your Highness, as long as I know about them,” he smiled easily again. “But I can’t promise that I won’t uncover more independently in the course of my research.”

“Fair enough, I suppose. So which Crest does Byleth possess?”

“She didn’t know.”

Edelgard was shocked again, and barely prevented herself from another outcry. “How--?” Lowering her voice to a whisper, she started again. “How is that possible?”

“She said she was examined by Professor Hanneman. He determined she did have a Crest, but apparently it must be a Lost Crest. Obviously if it was one the Ten Elite Crests or Five Holy Crests, he would have informed her right then and there. And there was a mention of something about him having to do research.”

“...a Lost Crest…” murmured Edelgard to herself, before eyeing him once more. “Would that prevent our shared, ah, ‘talent,’ from detecting it in her?”

“That...is an excellent question, Lady Edelgard. I honestly have no idea. Maybe, since those Crest bloodlines were once considered extinct. If you want, I could do some research on the subject. Lady Byleth is a stimulating person, so I won’t lose interest, I can promise you that.”

“She is, isn’t she?” smiled Edelgard briefly, but she soon looked pensive again. “Please do so. This news is...rather revealing to me. I admit I can’t help but feel some disappointment. She is usually so honest and forthright with me. Why would she tell you and Caspar but not me?” she said, more to herself than to him.

Linhardt grew concerned. Byleth was good for Edelgard. Anyone with a brain, even one as limited as Caspar’s, could see that. The equation ‘Byleth plus Edelgard equals more sleeping and reading time for Linhardt’ flashed intuitively in his mind. This was really not his forte, but he had to do something.

“Um, so. Edelgard. If I may be so bold,” he said seriously to his Princess. That caught her full attention. Good. He drew in a deep breath. “Byleth is, or shall we say, was, a commoner. She only told us because we asked her directly. If she hasn’t told you...it may be because she doesn’t know how to deal with it. And also, to put it bluntly, she may be afraid to tell you. She might think, for good reason, that you would treat her differently because of it.”

Edelgard absorbed his speech for a long moment. Linhardt recognized what she was thinking behind her eyes. Of how you wanted to be angry with someone, but you just couldn’t. He often felt the same way about his childhood friend. Also, he felt too lazy to seek out anyone else.

He was about to doze off when the Imperial Princess stirred from her thoughtful repose. “Thank you for those insightful words, Linhardt. I have to admit, your intellect has proven to be...a boon to me lately, if not a reliable one.”

“Ah, yes, um? I’m awake,” snapped Linhardt out of his catnap, his mind quickly recalling her words. “I’m happy to provide assistance, Your Highness. But maybe not...on demand, to phrase it delicately.” He brightened as an ingenious thought came to him. “Perhaps we can schedule little talks such as this for...um, let’s say, once a week? I can provide all the insight and wisdom you need from me for an hour, and in return, you leave me alone. No badgering, no lectures, no chases through the halls, no interference.”

“Two hours,” said the Imperial Princess stonily, her regality fully restored. “And you will not fall asleep once during that time.”

That sounded just...well, excruciating, to be blunt. Staying awake in a meeting with Edelgard, and possibly Hubert, for two whole hours? Talking the entire time? But there were another hundred and sixty-six hours left in the week, he reminded himself. Still, could he really do it?

He struggled with it. He really did. At the last, he admitted defeat. “...fine. You drive a hard bargain, Edelgard.”

“I am pleased you think so,” she smiled briefly at him, delighted at his acquiescence. “I will leave it to Hubert to inform you of the details. And now, please excuse me. I have a rather important meeting later today.”

*

“Your Highness, this is a terrible idea.”

“Your candor is noted, Sylvain.”

“Dimitri,” said Ingrid seriously, before immediately amending, “...Your Highness. For once I agree with Sylvain. There’s too much at stake. Please, don’t do this and just decline.”

“It is only an afternoon of tea, my friends,” said Dimitri, shaking his head at his old childhood playmates. These two were giving him a headache. Did they really think so little of him? It was after morning classes, and he had been busy preparing for the event in his room, but of course Sylvain, the social butterfly, had somehow found out about his tea engagement with Edelgard. The fact that Sylvain and Ingrid were united meant they were quite serious in their opposition, however. “I promise that I will not embarrass myself. Ferdinand has generously gifted me this goblet to sip from, so I need not worry about breaking anything.” He hefted the large and fairly gaudy silver cup before his friends, with a double headed eagle emblem engraved upon it.

Sylvain and Ingrid glanced at each other, irritating Dimitri further, before Sylvain sighed and said, “Fine. What’s your objective here, then?”

“What do you mean?” blinked Dimitri.

“C’mon, Your Highness. You don’t do ‘fun.’ You don’t do ‘social.’ And I’m really sorry for saying this, but I don’t think you have done ‘girls.’ You never do anything without a purpose. So what’s your real reason for meeting alone with the future Empress of Adrestia?”

“I...well, I…errm...” Dimitri stammered, at a loss for words before Sylvain’s blunt phrasing.

“Your Highness...I heard that the two of you fought during the mock battle. It has something to do with that, doesn’t it?” asked Ingrid, her eyes concerned.

“...we sparred, yes,” he said as he turned to Ingrid, still dismayed by Sylvain’s direct words. “It was an engaging battle, before we were interrupted by Claude and Professor Jeralt.”

“I heard you guys got into a _real_ fight,” declared Sylvain, crossing his arms.

“Then you are misinformed,” said Dimitri in a low tone, starting to tense up.

“Oh, really? Hilda told me something different, while I was helping carry some books back to the library. And she said she witnessed the entire thing.”

“Dorothea mentioned something similar to me,” said Ingrid. She paused, then began to glare back at the two men as they stared at her. “What? She’s been helping me train. Get your minds out of the gutter, you two.”

“Oh, my mind’s not in the gutter, believe me,” grinned Sylvain at his old friend. “Maybe more of in between the sheets…”

A solid punch to his shoulder from a Crest bearing noblewoman distracted Sylvain for the next two minutes. As he leaned against the wall and groaned in pain, Ingrid looked up at Dimitri through her blonde hair. “If we’re going to do this, Your Highness, you’ll need someone to be your second. Where’s your so-called vassal?”

“Ah...yes,” Dimitri said, briefly frowning at Ingrid’s barely hidden antagonism concerning his loyal friend. “Dedue asked me permission to work in the greenhouses today, and I allowed it. I think he is working hard to increase our options in the dining hall.”

“Meaning that even someone like him would think this is a bad idea, and you just wanted him out of the way, right?” scowled Ingrid. She shook her head as Dimitri didn’t answer. “Fine. I’m coming with you. And if I tell you it’s time to leave, Your Highness, then we’re going to leave, for the good of the entire Kingdom of Faerghus. Do you understand me?”

It was entirely inappropriate for someone of his station to be...well, bossed about in this manner, Dimitri decided. But he decided to overlook it and nodded in submission, if only to focus on the tea party ahead.

He had lacked the courage to confront the Princess since his arrival at Garreg Mach. But...what if he had been wrong to do so? He finally acknowledged to himself that he needed to know. He had to find out lest the uncertainty drive him mad. He had to know who he would be speaking to when the time finally came.

Would he be talking to Edelgard, the sole heir of the Adrestian Empire...or El, his big sister from his childhood?

He truly did not know. But he was now determined to find out.

*

In the dining hall, Byleth finally managed to find her father and Trips, and with a bit of surprise noted Zarad with them as well. She hadn’t seen her Almyran friend in weeks.

“Thought you were dead,” she said, sitting down next to the man with her tray.

“As if anything in this pathetic land could kill me,” he sniffed haughtily. He reached out and tousled her hair playfully, and she quickly swatted his hands away as he laughed.

“Could you do that maybe after you’ve had a bath? Or five?” Byleth groused. He was no bed of roses at the moment. When he opened his mouth to protest, Byleth immediately added, “Jumping into the river doesn’t count.”

“One for her side,” noted Jeralt, and Zarad complained about the softness of Fodlan women. Loudly.

Trips smiled at the antics, but then motioned Byleth to focus. Leaning over her food, her stepmother said in a low voice, “He’s been on an important mission, kid. It wasn’t Church sanctioned, but I think they’ll overlook it because of who he brought in.”

“A bounty?” asked Byleth curiously as she dug into her meat pie.

“A pretty big one,” nodded her father. “Zarad found the old Golden Deer Professor. The one who was here before me. Maybe he’ll explain why he abandoned the kids during that bandit and mage attack.”

“Where is he?”

“In the dungeons, and that’s all you need to know,” said Trips firmly to her stepdaughter. Jeralt grunted in assent beside her. Maybe it was hypocritical of them, but they had both long agreed with each other to shield Byleth from the reality of coercion and torture as much as possible. Previously it was because in her emotionless state, she might discover a passionless capacity for it; now with her flowering emotions, they worried she might develop a taste for it.

“He may have been a mage, but the man was definitely an amateur at hiding. It took me only ten days to find him, cowering in his mother’s cellar in his home village,” said Zarad disinterestedly as he ate.

Jeralt narrowed his eyes at his corporal. “Were you seen?”

“I hope so,” said the black man around a mouthful of food.

“Wipe the crumbs off your chin, if you want me to take you seriously. What do you mean?”

“Behold,” said Zarad with a flourish, reaching into a belt pouch, and ignoring his Captain completely. He produced something white and fuzzy, which he unfolded out on the table.

Byleth leaned closer at the object. It looked like it was made of horsehair. “Is that...a wig?”

Trips made the connection immediately. “Oh Goddess, Zarad. You didn’t,” said Trips, looking at the Almyran in horror.

He snorted scornfully. “As if it is my fault the people of Faerghus are mad dogs. I just made sure those mad dogs would not follow me south back to the Fairy Castle. Their crime and ignorance is of their own making.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” said Jeralt. Trips gasped at his acquiescence and Jeralt held up a hand to speak. “I don’t like it anymore than you, Trips. But Masterson might be essential to getting a lead on the conspiracy against the Church. And that little bit of misdirection might help us in the long run.”

“At the cost of innocent Duscar lives,” said her stepmother darkly, her appetite gone.

“This is war, lass. We can’t save them all.”

_You cannot save them all._

Byleth sat straight up and turned in her seat at hearing the voice, looking around for Sothis. She really didn’t know what she would do if she did see her, but at least she could…

“What’s up with you?” said Zarad curiously.

Byleth realized all of her family was looking at her. She shook her head in quick denial. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Byleth…”

“I’m fine, Dad,” she almost snarled at him. Blinking in confusion and embarrassment at her outburst, but equally determined to not back down, she abruptly left the table, heading back to the Knight’s quarters.

Trips made to stand and follow, but Zarad whispered intently at the healer, “Wait. There is something I must tell you.”

The healer eyed him doubtfully, and Jeralt looked askance as well. “What, Zarad? We don’t mess with the magic stuff. You know that.”

“Shamir told me something, in exchange for the prisoner,” the corporal intoned quietly. “Something you must know about Byleth. About what happened during the Rites she underwent as a Knight.”

The two parental figures became instantly grim. “Let’s hear it, Corporal,” said Trips, sitting back down.

*

Flayn walked through the halls of Garreg Mach, humming brightly to herself. There was such fine weather today. She had wished for a chance to go fishing with her “brother,” but he was terribly preoccupied with some business concerning the Church. Something about a rebellion or some nonsense of the sort. Despite existing only in dreams for a thousand years, Flayn thought some things about human nature simply never would change, and at times it made even her soul struggle against a sense of futility.

But not today, she thought as she stopped to admire the view from the long monastery bridge from the Academy to the Cathedral. The air was warm, the sun was bright, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky, making the mountains appear magnificent in the distance and the water of the river sparkle with a shimmering clarity. The world was bright and full of possibilities.

She smiled politely to a pair of abbesses who patted her head and blessed her in Sothis’ name, while she replied in a gracious acknowledgement. Flayn still found it decidedly odd to see women of all ages walking by or kneeling in pews, murmuring prayers in her true name. An entire order of nuns, the Sisters of Saint Cethleann, went about their duties at the monastery of healing the sick or injured of Garreg Mach Town, or giving aid and comfort to the needy and dying. They even styled their hair in the manner of her own. Flayn had forgotten how many times she had been mistaken for a novice, of an order that was founded a thousand years ago in her name! It had been amusing at first, but now it was also making her a bit sad as well, that she could not reveal herself to these poor souls who worked so diligently and so faithfully, and do the work of the Goddess beside them.

But her “brother” had forbidden it. It was too dangerous, he said, and he sternly reminded her that humans, even members of the faith, could only be trusted up to a point. Auntie Seiros had wholeheartedly agreed, despite being herself the leader of a faith had millions of human worshippers across the entire continent. Only “special” humans, they informed her, such as the Holy Knight Catherine or Professor Jeralt, were to be trusted in case something happened to them.

Flayn was of the distinct opinion that heads of religions were not, in fact, infallible. She had noticed that her aunt’s behavior had also changed quite a bit over the years. Flayn did not remember her acting so...remote. Something in the intervening centuries had changed her.

She eventually tired of the view, and wandered towards the Cathedral. It was probably empty, this being the hours between services, but she liked to look upon the statues of herself, her “brother,” and her two uncles. She wondered what Uncle Indech and Uncle Macuil were doing these days. When asked, Seteth would only say they were alive, but living far away now, and that they were hiding. She missed them, but was happy to know they were still safe and sound. Looking at the four golden statues, sometimes her eyes watered and shed tears as she imagined another statue that should have been there, that of Mother. Somehow, her sacrifice had been forgotten by history, while her unworthy daughter remained behind. Seteth promised that they would visit her soon…

There were few priests and parishioners moving about on various duties in the vast Cathedral interior, but Flayn was surprised to see the large armored form of Alois nearby, shaking his head, subdued and downcast for some reason. That was definitely unusual, and she immediately veered to speak with him. “Good day, Knight Alois. You do not usually appear so troubled.”

“Ah, hello, dear Flayn,” he nodded down to her. “I must admit I’m in a bit of a pickle. Your brother asked me to interview one of the students, but the poor lad is so distraught I couldn’t get much out of him. We’ve already had that awful trouble with Lady Marianne, and now I fear we might have a similar problem with Lord Ashe.”

“Oh, I know the young man,” smiled Flayn, ignoring Alois’ odd look. “He is usually quite cheerful and helpful. We must attempt to improve his mood at once!”

“I’m sure a sweet girl like yourself should find that to be a cakewalk,” chuckled the old Knight, but his face soon fell once again. “But that’s the trouble. His father is the one starting this awful rebellion against Lady Rhea, and he won’t have a prayer when the Knights of Seiros take the field. The poor boy’s already in mourning for the man, and has been that way ever since the sun came up. Nothing I can say, not even my best jokes, have made him crack a smile.”

Flayn’s smile became a bit strained as Alois explained himself. She couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or entirely without thinking. And she could well imagine the effect Alois’ “best jokes” would have on a young teen upset over a family member. “I’m sure you did your best, Knight-Captain Alois. Where is he? I would like to speak with him.”

Alois nodded further into the nave of the Cathedral. “Up ahead in a pew. I do hope you can raise his spirits. Be sure to sing his praises for me, all right? Sometimes you just need to sit down and count your blessings in this life…”

Flayn quickly stepped past the Knight in mid-sentence, hurrying the silver haired Blue Lion boy. She may be more than a thousand years old, but there were limits to even her patience.

Ashe’s head was bowed where he was sitting, as if in prayer. Flayn knew better from the tension and stress she saw quivering in his shoulders. She stepped quietly into the pew, but still far away enough from the teen to give him privacy if he wished.

The motion made him look up. “Oh,” Ashe sniffed, running a hand across his nose. “Flayn. Are you here to tell me to cheer up as well?”

“That would be very insensitive of me,” she said, shaking her green hair. “I am just here to offer you comfort, in any way that I can manage. You do not need to endure such suffering alone.”

“I look that bad, huh?” said Ashe as he tried to bravely smile through his tears, but soon his face twisted once more. “It’s just...I’ve never felt this helpless in my life. Even when I was stealing food for myself and my family. But now, Lonato is doing something terrible and...I just don’t know what’s right anymore.”

“That is a natural feeling to such distressing news,” agreed Flayn sadly. “And if you were wondering about your stepfather, I believe it is acceptable to acknowledge that you still love him. He always sounded like a gentle and kind man from your stories of him.”

“He was...he is!” whispered Ashe in confusion. “If only there was some way I could say something to him, or do something to make him stop…” 

“And if you spoke to him, and he still would not stop, what would you do then?”

“Then...I’d guess I’d have to fight him...wouldn’t I?”

“You would fight your noble father?” Flayn was astonished by his admission.

“I’m not going to lie...I’m not yet sure if I will be able to do it,” said Ashe, staring at his hands. “But...Lonato taught me that a Knight has to fight for what he believes is true. And just. He told me that sometimes, that’s a hard choice to make. I didn’t understand him earlier, but now...I think I’m beginning to.”

Flayn smiled and patted the boy’s shoulder. He looked up at the contact, and she said, “Ashe, please let me say that only the bravest Knight could endure what you are experiencing now. And you are accepting it well with a maturity beyond your years. I think I can say confidently that whatever choice you make, it will be the one that is the best for yourself. And for others.”

“Um...thank you, Flayn. That...that means a lot to me,” Ashe started sniffing once more. Flayn did not want him to wipe his face on his hands any longer. It would not do to catch illness from such distress. Reaching into an embroidered pocket, she offered him a handkerchief that was hundreds of years old. It did hold some sentimental value, but…

“What? Oh, Flayn, no, I couldn’t. I’m fine, I’ll just,” protested Ashe, ashamed as she held it out to him.

Flayn smiled in deep sympathy. “Please take it, Ashe. You need it much more now than I do.”

*

It always amazed Hubert how a carefully constructed plot could fall awry to the simplest of things.

“You have an important task this afternoon,” Lady Edelgard declared to him after the noontime meal, in the relative privacy of an unobtrusive corner near the saunas. “Linhardt has finally decided to inform me that Byleth somehow has a Crest. We must get to the bottom of this and learn all we can of her possible heritages. Speak with Professor Hanneman or anyone else that might have knowledge which Crest it might be. We must discover the truth about her and her father, no matter what.”

“And what will you do with that truth, Lady Edelgard?” he inquired subtly.

He was satisfied to see his mistress at her most grim and deadly. “Whatever needs to be done.”

“As you say,” he murmured in pleased satisfaction. “But you would not have me leave you alone and unattended against Prince Dimitri and his pet Duscarman this afternoon? That is an unacceptable risk, my Lady.”

Edelgard briefly considered who from the Black Eagle House would not embarrass her. It was a short list, but then said, “Petra may attend upon me. I believe she has sufficient command of the language now for an afternoon of tea and conversation. And you trust her skills as a hunter to protect me, do you not?” Hubert was forced to agree with the logic. Bernadetta and Caspar would make poor company, and Ferdinand and Dorothea would spend the entire event trying to dominate the proceedings. And Linhardt was self-disqualifying for obvious reasons.

Well then, he thought to himself as he went about his duty. So much for trying to derail the dreaded ‘tea party.’ He had planned to cause a scene between the Duscar dog and himself, angrying both Dimitri and Lady Edelgard out of the necessary poise and solemnity such an occasion called for. But now her orders demanded that he must let things take their course. His mistress might be hurt and dismayed by going through with the wretched event, but after some reflection, he trusted in her to have the strength of will to move past such petty things as a long-lost childhood stepbrother. The shocking news that Knight Byleth possessed a mysterious Crest obviously took precedence. Such a revelation indicated that Lady Edelgard’s previous interest in the woman was completely justified. She was clearly going to be a major player on the board for some time to come.

He headed straight for Professor Hanneman’s office, but he was engrossed in some meetings and could not be disturbed, possibly for hours. He considered entering the library, but that might put him in contact with...Tomas. He was not ready for that confrontation, not yet. Besides, it was a risk that might blow both of their covers.

He seriously considered speaking with Professor Jeralt, but knew the man was likely too wary to be played for secrets. He doubted any of the Blue Lions knew anything about this, and most of the Knights were rushing about in grim agitation, spending their time locked up with each other and not with the students, preoccupied as they were with Lonato’s rebellion.

Then he considered an individual in the monastery who he might approach. Highly intelligent, to be sure. Mysteriously powerful, as well. Competent and capable and hard-working.

Yet still...a child. Able to be manipulated. Perhaps even vulnerable to such pathetic things such as emotions and morality. Or baubles or trifles. Then he remembered something Dorothea had mentioned to him the other day, when she had been attempting to distract him with prattle. Something about...cake.

It would be very wrong of him to take advantage of such an obvious weakness, wouldn’t it?

Hubert chuckled darkly to himself, and went out to seek Lysithea.

*

Marianne had made good progress this month, Trips decided, as she left her patient in the infirmary. She had already arranged for the slight noblewoman’s new room. Hilda von Goneril had eagerly and enthusiastically accepted the assigned responsibility of bunking with Marianne, and Marianne said she didn’t have any objections to seeing the flighty noblewoman daily. Her chores in the cathedral and stable duties appeared to cure her of her malaise, but Trips knew better. There was no “cure” sometimes, merely prevention. She would check on the young woman as best as her schedule would allow in the coming months. It was time to tell the Captain she could return to daily classes, if she could find him or his daughter this afternoon. She sighed. It would probably have to wait until late evening.

Byleth had been a great help on that second day, but she was now fully occupied in planning and councils and intelligence meetings, as per her duties as a Knight. The news of Lonato’s rebellion in Western Faerghus had set the Church leadership on its ear, and Trips struggled to mentally prepare herself, as best she could, for the upcoming large scale campaign, where death and misery were assured. This would be Byleth’s first involvement in a campaign with armies numbering in the thousands, and she knew the young woman was eager to prove herself on the field. She also hoped desperately her condition would not act up during battle. Zarad’s tale of visions Byleth couldn’t control from Shamir was deeply worrisome. Trips could only trust that Zarad and the other Knights would be able to guard her back, while she and the other healers would be at the rear of the army with the baggage train, busy deciding who would live and who would die among the wounded. She was not looking forward to her own experience.

She had just ascended the stairs to the monastery’s second floor when she nearly bumped into an absently muttering Professor Hanneman, who looked up from attempting to smooth his robes. “Ah, there you are Lady Beatrix. Just the person I was looking for,” said the former nobleman, adjusting his monocle. 

“And a good afternoon to you, Professor. What’s this about? It must be drastic for you to be so impolite.”

“Oh, forgive me, but there is someone here in my office to visit with Lady Marianne. I believed that they should consult with you first, since you have been the young woman’s primary physician. Please follow me.”

Curious, Trips briefly wondered who would be wanting to meet with Marianne from outside Garreg Mach. Very briefly. There could only be one possible visitor.

Steeling herself as much as she could in the short walk to Hanneman’s office, Trips prepared herself for another preening, egotistic nobleman, the one reputed to be the wealthiest in all of Fodlan. Thus she was not prepared for the figure that greeted her in Hanneman’s study. A short, quiet man in austere mud-stained merchant’s clothing, with a rapier sheathed to his belt. His features were hawkish and his dark, upswept hair was only slightly grey at the temples and the edges of his styled beard. After Hanneman had made the introductions, he swept into a precise bow to Trips. “Lady Beatrix, thank you so much for your interventions on Marianne’s behalf. I came at once when Lord Seteth’s courier reached me. How is she?”

“You are very welcome, Margrave Edmund,” she bowed in return. “While I cannot say she has made a full recovery, she is no longer in need of round the clock observation. I do believe she will be attending classes again soon.”

“Thank you for your trouble, but that will not be necessary. I have come to take her home,” the Margrave said simply.

“Ah...I see. That is your right as her guardian, of course. But let us discuss the matter further, and consider what Marianne might wish to decide for herself.”

While Hanneman poured his bergamot tea, Trips took the time to rearrange some opinions of the nobleman seated across from her. He was not malignant or indifferent to his stepdaughter’s suffering, but perhaps just inexperienced. He was a widower, and had no living issue, he explained dispassionately, all of them victims of the Plague of 1166. “When I was honored by Duke Riegan and welcomed into the nobility,” he said, sipping his tea, “the fact that I had no direct heir was a major issue for most of the Lords. I suspect that is why some of them, such as Count Gloucester, have treated my accession with mockery, and believe it is merely temporary. But Lady Judith of Daphnel graciously presented me with a possible solution, whereby I could perhaps adopt a young noble who had fallen onto hard times in her territory.”

“Marianne?” Trips asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “The poor girl was in distressing circumstances, and by herself in her small family manor in the country, aside from a few loyal servants. The other staff had looted much of the estate, once it became apparent that their master and mistress would not be returning. I suppose we must be grateful they simply didn’t burn it all down around her. The girls survived by hiding in the cellar, and that is where my associates found them. The remaining servants were rewarded for their bravery and charity, but of course you can imagine how traumatic this was for the young woman.”

“What a terrible tragedy,” murmured Hanneman. “This poor girl has suffered so much.” Trips agreed, but had a feeling that wasn’t merely it. Marianne often had hinted that there was even something darker in her past.

“And hence my concern for her, to provide an environment where she can feel safe,” Margrave Edmund nodded. He sighed, “But in truth, I am often at a loss to know what she desires, aside from horseback riding. Her family’s horses were once famous around Leceister, so that is perhaps natural. But while a dutiful child, she does not show much desire or interest in many things. She does not think of courtship or suitors, or balls or dresses, or jewelry or cooking. She appeared to take solace in prayer, so I encouraged her interest and activities in the Church. And when she began to show a wonderful talent for healing and conjuration, I thought perhaps she could blossom here, at the Academy, with other noble children similar to her.”

“And despite her attempt on her own life, I believe she has,” explained Trips. “Many of the noble students are particularly taken with her. If you want my professional opinion, my Lord Margrave, I believe it would be best to have her remain here, among a community that has rallied around her. Changing her environment too quickly could cause her harm.”

The Margrave sat down his empty cup on the desk table with a clink. “I see. But that may become a problem. Tell me, have there been any...suspicious individuals, shall we say, asking about Marianne since she has arrived at the monastery?”

Trips deferred to Hanneman, who shook his head, “I don’t recall anyone of the sort, Lord Edmund. Is this related to her...status?”

The nobleman frowned behind his goatee. “Yes, I believe so.” He raised his brows. “You are no doubt curious as to why someone of my station has come alone, are you not?”

“I simply thought you enjoyed saving money,” said Trips mildly.

A brief smile at the joke, but he sooned turned grim again. “I do, but not so in this case.” He reached into his doublet and pulled out a slip of paper. “When I was in Derdriu, securing passage by wyvernback to Garreg Mach, I saw these being distributed by criers in the marketplace.”

Trips set down her cup and examined the smudged leaflet. It was in typeset, with bold letters proclaiming “The Beast of Garreg Mach: Central Church Corrupted by Witchcraft” A stylized Crest engraving covered the rest of the page, along with woodblock illustrations of children and women being eaten by dark shapes.

“What rubbish!” scoffed Trips. “Have you seen anything like this before, Professor?” She crumpled the leaflet and bounced it on to his desk.

Hanneman cleared his throat at the childish display, but soon smooth out the paper and examined it carefully. He looked up to the Margrave, his expression intent. “Oh dear. I must confess I now see why you wished to keep her Crest a secret.”

“A secret that is now exposed, somehow, unfortunately. We must decide what to do about this.”

“Wait, that’s a real Crest?” said Trips, blinking. “How come I’ve never seen it before?”

Hanneman looked to the Margrave, but he nodded firmly. “She is her healer. I don’t believe this kind woman would turn on her now.”

The Professor nodded and let out a slow breath, clasping his hands on his desk. “The reason for Lady Marianne’s melancholy is now plain. It appears the poor child is a bearer of the Crest of the Beast.”

*

Edelgard double checked Petra in Garreg Mach dress uniform one final time in the mirror. She was not of the opinion that the Brigid girl was incompetent, far from it. Perhaps it was her own anxiety of Hubert not being by her side, or the disquieting information about Byleth that Linhardt had revealed to her this morning.

Or it may be her growing, jittery unease over discovering that the tall young man who tried to treat her with kindness and respect, and deferred to her judgement almost unconsciously, was one of her prime assassination targets. She had assumed he would become an intractable foe of a foreign nation once her plans were revealed, but instead she was now trying to get closer to him. Could anything really be gained by this? What if she was wrong? As the hour of the event came near, she was not dealing with the internal questions with her usual controlled detachment, and noticed with frustration that she was sweating through her own military dress and red cape. 

She did not remember much of her childhood before the darkness and the pain and the chains. But slowly over the past weeks she found herself recalling more, sometimes against her will. She remembered long sleepless nights amidst the nibbling and squeaking, and how she used to dream of dancing with a gentle boy with long blonde hair. As she wept at the bite of wet cold chains, she recalled instead wanting to feel his warmth as they leaned together in her mother’s lap, as she read them stories of Emperors and Kings, Saints and Heroes. And she vividly remembered how she sat awkwardly holding a dagger as she stared out the carriage window, carrying her away from her mother and the boy and her home for the past three years. She had tried to surrender it to her Lord Uncle, but he chuckled in dark amusement at the weapon in the child’s hands, and magnanimously allowed her to keep it; she was going to need it soon enough, he explained. He was right. Less than a year after leaving Fhirdiad, that dagger stole its first life….

“Lady Edelgard, we must be leaving now,” said Petra firmly, standing at the door of her dormitory room. “There are no more moments to lose.” Edelgard nodded numbly, her breathing unconsciously becoming hitched and her giddiness increasing.

Somehow, she made it down the stairs and walked up the paths to the gardens. She had made arrangements for the garden tea tables by the gazebo to be empty this afternoon, with only the settings for the tea ready upon their arrival. Being the heir apparent of an Empire occasionally did have its perks.

Upon arriving, Edelgard noted with surprise that Dimitri was attended by Lady Ingrid instead of his commoner vassal. Most unusual. They were standing at attention by the gazebo, both impeccably clean and pressed in their own dress uniforms by the tables. The moment was upon her, even as the feeling of uncontrollable tension increased within her.

Technically, she was playing hostess, and must observe the forms. “Prince Dimitri, Lady Ingrid, thank you for joining us,” Edelgard started, forcing her voice to steadiness.

“The pleasure is all ours,” replied Dimitri though somewhat stiff lips. Edelgard was suddenly pleased to note he was just as nervous as she was. That was something, at least. “Thank you for your gracious invitation, Princess Edelgard, Princess Petra. We have been looking forward to this.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Petra said proudly, delighted to be acknowledged by her title. “Lady Ingrid,” said Petra with a smile. “We have set a table for just us two aside from Lady Edelgard and Lord Dimitri, so they may converse stately on matters. May I have the pleasure of serving you?”

“I will enjoy it, Princess Petra,” bowed Ingrid formally to the tattooed girl. She rose and briefly touched Dimitri’s arm. “Your Highness, I will come fetch you later. Please behave while alone with Princess Edelgard.”

It was meant as a joke, but no one present was laughing.

*

The four of them were soon seated and the tea was poured, with Petra already chatting excitedly with Ingrid at a table a few meters away. Dimitri explained to Edelgard about his difficulty handling porcelain, showing her the cup he had brought, and she poured the Hresvelg blend into the hideously ugly silver goblet with good grace, although she found her perception of Ferdinand souring even further, if that was possible. He sipped briefly, and she did as well, until they set their cups down and sat staring at each other for a long moment.

“Edel--”

“Dimi--”

They started simultaneously, and Edelgard quickly shook her head. “I’m sorry, Prince Dimitri. Please go first.”

“Yes, that is, I was going to say...Edelgard,” he said deeply, becoming grim. “There is something I have to know. Now, before this goes any further.”

“Yes?” she asked, dreading the coming question. She had been fearing it for some time now.

“Is anyone...I repeat, anyone, to your knowledge, within the Empire responsible for the Tragedy of Duscar?” the Prince fairly growled. 

Edelgard sighed in relief. This was actually safe territory. “No, Dimitri. No noble of the Empire, nor my father, nor I had anything to do with the wicked attack that killed your father and friends. I am deeply sorry for your loss, but I will swear to that, upon my honor as a Hresvelg.” Not technically a lie. She didn’t really consider Thales a true part of the Empire.

Dimitri stirred briefly in his seat, and his eyes seemed far away for an instant. “But...I saw red and black armor that day…”

“Armor can be painted,” Edelgard pointed out. “Armor can be used as a disguise by provocateurs, who wish to avoid culpability for their actions.” She picked out a sweet, but not too sweet, small danish from the serving tray and set it on her plate. “In any case, the Empire was still recovering from the War with Dagda and Brigid, and the horrific destruction of House Nuvelle. There would be no gain by immediately provoking another war with the Kingdom.” Not yet, anyway. Not until their glorious weapon, the Flame Emperor, had fully grown and matured, she thought coldly.

The Prince struggled against her words, but eventually took another sip of tea as he said tighty, “What you say may be true. Father had so many enemies for daring to attempt political reform, and for trying to ease relations with foreign nations with words instead of Relics. So it had to have been a group originating within Fodlan, but my difficulty is knowing even where to look for vengeance.”

The Princess smiled and laid her carefully considered bait. This would easily win his trust, and had the further advantage of being completely true. “So who benefited the most inside the Kingdom from the massacre of all the people Duscar?”

“My uncle the Grand Duke certainly did not. Now he is forced to actually govern, instead of chasing every skirt in Itha, hoping to spawn a Crest of Blaidydd,” said Dimitri bitterly. “Gustav vanished, and Lonato lost a son because of his suspect involvement…and Rodrigue would not wish to endanger Glenn...”

“Dimitri,” she interrupted him gently. “You are thinking in terms of people. Who gained the most _land_ after the Tragedy? An entire country of his own, now conveniently depopulated of its original inhabitants?”

He looked shocked, but immediately focused on her words. “Viscount...Kleiman…” he muttered, the edges of his metal goblet starting to bend alarmingly in his grip.

“It is merely my own conjecture,” Edelgard hastened to add, taking a small bite of her pastry. “I am sorry, but I have no evidence or proof to give you. You will have to prepare yourself that there may never be a satisfactory explanation of what happened to your family and friends.”

Dimitri stared dully into his cup, then shook his head, in a jerking motion. “I--cannot accept that. Maybe one day. Perhaps. But...not today.” He took a deep breath before taking another sip of tea, his blue eyes gazing directly at Edelgard. “But...I am not the only one who has had something happen to my family. Isn’t that right...El?”

Now it was Edelgard’s turn to hesitate. There it was, the forbidden question. She looked away from her guest but nodded firmly. “Sadly, you are correct...Dima.”

*

Petra decided that she liked Lady Ingrid while they conversed, as she sipped her spiced tea. She greatly enjoyed hearing more stories of Felix’s childhood, and the Kingdom noble listened politely and with interest to her own dreams and passions concerning Brigid. Petra was astonished to realize that Ingrid had never even seen the ocean. But then she considered the Galatean noblewoman’s stories of flying high on a pegasus above snow capped peaks equally odd. Why would anyone want to live somewhere so cold and barren? Perhaps that explained the pile of fruit scones, laden with butter, on the Blue Lion’s plate. She had thoughtfully left the last one for Petra.

They noted with mutual relief that their superiors appeared to be getting on well, and the conversation moved to lighter matters for a moment.

“Dorothea mentions often your name,” smiled Petra over her teacup.

“She’s been a good sparring partner. I can actually give her a chance to cast magic at an opponent while sparring with weapons, and it doesn’t do much to me. Except tickle,” said Ingrid, shrugging, and taking an enormous bite.

“She did mention to me that she wished to test her magic charms against you,” nodded Petra. “Is it working?”

“Well...I think she’s going easy on me, to be honest. I keep telling her I’m not made of glass, that I can take her best shot, but I think she’s afraid of hurting me.”

“I will inform her of this. Dorothea has always shown to me kindness and perception. She once even tried to cook a Brigid meal for me.”

“Oh, no. Could you finish it?”

“I did. I have eaten worse. Though perhaps not in...a long while,” Petra grimaced.

Ingrid laughed appreciatively. “Well, maybe it’s the thought that counts. At least she doesn’t cause explosions, like Annette and Mercedes. I’ve heard the cook staff performs evacuation drills when those two enter the kitchens.”

“Dorothea is very much thoughtful of others,” agreed Petra. “ You are lucky to have her.”

“What?” Ingrid looked up from her plate at that. “Wait, um...I think we’re having a language problem. Dorothea is just my training partner now. We’re just friends.”

Petra tilted her head. “Ah, so you only train together? Not doing the...oh, what is the word...the dates?”

Ingrid was starting to blush, and quickly said, “No, nothing like that. She’s just been trying to make up with me since the mock battle. She’s helped me out with a few other things, like declining proposals from suitors sent by my Lord Father, but we’re not...dating. I’m not like that.”

“I see. Forgive me. That is my crack in the earth. Caspar told me Dorothea wanted to crush you, so I may have misunderstood.”

“Let’s just leave it at that,” said Ingrid with a shake of her blonde hair. “Besides, what about you and Felix?”

Petra smiled unashamedly. “Yes, I with certainty want to crush Felix. I hope that does not trouble you.”

“Actually, to be perfectly honest, I’m more relieved than anything. Out of all of us, Felix changed the most from the Tragedy. And in the four years since then...I don’t think I’ve sat down and talked with him about it. Or else I can’t remember. That was...a difficult time, for all of us.”

“Yes. I learned of it from Ferdinand. It made me very sad to hear it. I lost my father to war, and that is to be expected and understandable. But the Tragedy is not...understandable. Ah, I am sorry. Is my meaning clear?”

Ingrid looked with sadness at her Prince, seated with the Imperial Princess, and said, “Yes, Petra. I understand your meaning completely.”

*

“Dima…” Dimitri murmured. His eyes were shining like stars. “So you do remember…”

“For that I have you to thank, during the mock battle,” said Edelgard truthfully, reaching to her waist. She pulled the dagger from her belt and rested it upon the tea table. “You gave me this, so many years ago.”

“I...I did…” smiled the Prince, lost briefly in memories. “I am sorry. That was a foolish thing to give to a Princess, and even then, I knew better…”

“It did surprise me at the time,” smiled the Princess. “But please do not be sorry. This dagger has hardly left my side since then. With it, I never once lost heart, even in the darkness. It gave me the strength and confidence to endure my trials.”

“It means so much to me to hear you say that…” whispered Dimitri, and he quickly wiped his eyes and covered his shame with a hasty sip from his cup. “But El...what do you mean by trials? Your hair...something happened to change you, did it not?”

Edelgard forced herself to nod. “Yes. It is an unpleasant subject. But when I returned to Enbarr, the Imperial Ministers forced every heir of the Emperor to undergo...tests. The punishment for failure was death. Even for the children.”

Dimitri was shocked into stillness, which fortunately prevented him from breaking anything. “Monstrous…” he whispered. “Surely not...your father?”

“My father was forced to watch. All of it. Helplessly, as tears ran down his face and blood dripped from his fists. The Imperial Ministry is in total control of the Empire. And now, save for my father, I am all that remains of House Hresvelg.”

Still stupefied with disgust, Dimitri muttered, “But why...why such grotesque evil...simply for the sake of evil…against one of their own? Against their future Empress?”

Edelgard controlled herself very tightly. This was the main thrust of her gambit. She had not even told Hubert of this plan, for he would surely object. But her newly awakened memories in the weeks since the mock battle had inspired Edelgard to cultivate...options. Possibly sympathetic ones, to her cause.

“Because of who we are. Because of our blood and a heritage we did not ask for. Because of Crests.”

“Crests?” asked a confused Dimitri.

Nodding, Edelgard explained. “The Imperial nobility was disappointed in the perceived weakness of the House of Hresvelg. So they sought to purge it, with the aid of dark magic, and vile experiments with royal blood. My entire family was punished for the sin of being born. Never once have I considered my bloodline a ‘blessing’ from the ‘Goddess,’” she fairly spat the last words.

“That is...understandable, from your perspective,” said Dimitri slowly. “But surely it does not mean it must be so? Crests are like any other talent or tool. It depends on what meaning you make of it yourself. There may be many wicked nobles, I agree, but there are many good and kind ones as well. Just as there are simply bad and good people.”

She shook her head gently. “But at what cost? Ask your friends Ingrid and Sylvain about how they feel about their Crests. And then consider how their bloodline has changed their natures, and forced them to behave just because they have it. And how your own Crest has forced you to behave,” Edelgard said, with a significant glance to Dimitri’s silver goblet.

Dimitri traced the dents in the rim he had made with a gloved finger. “I...have never considered it that way. I suppose I have never thought of an alternative way of life...being caught up in...other matters.”

“I understand that impulse as well. It is a natural instinct to seek revenge, but at the same time, I know it will not bring back my brothers or sisters,” said Edelgard, refilling their cups. “Instead, I have made it my life’s ambition to replace the invisible system behind such evil acts, to prevent them from happening in the first place, and never again. When I am Emperor, I intend to bring reform with me.”

“And finally fulfill your father’s dream,” murmured Dimitri in appreciation, nodding.

Edelgard looked up at him in surprise, but agreed. “I have not thought of it that way, but you are right. I will succeed in his stead one day, and make him and his legacy proud.”

“But...what of the Church? To go against the teachings of Seiros…”

“Should be up to each secular leader to decide on their own. Would you willingly submit yourself to the commands of an Archbishop, and merely become a puppet? Suppose you found the perpetrators of the Tragedy, yet the Central Church forbade you from vengeance. Would you obey?”

Dimitri appeared to be at least considering her words, while Edelgard sipped at the exquisite Hresvelg blend in pleasure. This was going much better than she had expected. Why hadn’t she studied this possibility before? Why had she simply assumed Arundel and Cornelia had him under their complete control? That was obviously not the case.

Eventually, Dimitri replied, “Your thoughts are running deeper than my own, Edelgard. I must confess, to me it sounds like someone who has been robbed declaring that they will rid the world of gold, so that nobody else will suffer its theft again.” Edelgard began to stiffen in offense, but the Prince forestalled her and continued, “But I believe I understand that in the main, you wish to change the Empire for the better. And you have selflessly put your own desires aside to accomplish your goals, despite the tragedy you suffered. While I selfishly have looked for nothing but revenge…”

“Please, Dimitri. Do not be too hard on yourself,” said Edelgard, amazed to hear herself say it. “And I have not put myself aside entirely. That is impossible. But you are right that I intend to bring change when I rule. I have come to believe dwelling in the past too much is a mistake. We must always have an eye to the future, lest we merely wander aimlessly in the present.”

“Well said, El,” said the Faerghus Prince, his eyes shining in admiration once more. “I think...maybe it is presumptuous for me to say this...but I sincerely hope you can feel as if you do have one little brother remaining, at least.”

Edelgard smiled and laid her hand on the dagger, still on the table. “I do. And I believe that somehow...I always have felt that way. Thank you, my old friend, for reminding me.”

Dimitri smiled briefly, and so broadly, that it looked as the sun peeking behind the clouds. But then his somber nature asserted itself again. “Perhaps one day we will avenge the death of our mother, together. That is a pleasing thought,” he said firmly.

“I...I hope so too,” said Edelgard, her composure starting to crack slightly.

Unfortunately, Dimitri saw her distress, and said softly, “Forgive me. Often I am so absorbed in my own memories, I do not consider their effect upon others. It must have been devastating to learn she died in the Tragedy, while you were so far away from her. And...I did not mean to bring it up, to hurt you, in the mock battle. This I swear.”

“I believe you, Dimitri. And I will accept your apology, although it is not necessary. But please, do try to eat something that the staff has prepared…”

Her efforts to distract him succeeded, and the Prince was preoccupied for a moment in carefully adding a small sandwich to his plate, not wanting to break anything and spoil the mood. It gave Edelgard time to ruthlessly assert dominance over her emotions and memories once more.

She could not tell him the truth, sadly. That Anselma von Arundel of the Empire, former First Consort of Emperor Ionius IX, formerly known as Queen-Consort Patricia of Faerghus, had been executed in Enbarr on the orders of the Imperial Regent, Lord Volkhard von Arundel, for the crime of High Treason.

And then he had cruelly forced Edelgard to swing the axe herself.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thales sucks goat butt.
> 
> So that's my version of "Where's Patricia?"


	22. The Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Even the movie The Fog didn't have this much fog!"
> 
> \--
> 
> Tom Servo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know you have a problem when you write chapters longer than many fics.
> 
> A very Byleth centric chapter. Finally steering the plot ship away from the icebergs. I think.
> 
> Hope everyone's doing well. Stay sane, stay safe. (published 26.3.20 in midst of outbreak)

Ch 22

The Fog

Rhea gazed at the Knights in her audience chamber one final time. It was the first day of the Garland Moon. Now was the time for this rebellion to be crushed, and show the faithful the Church of Seiros could still be the Sword and Shield of the people, even as they prepared for the Rite of Rebirth.

She acted on Jeralt’s suggestion, but despite his sound advice, the response from the nobles of the Kingdom had been mixed. Viscount Kleiman pleaded excuses, citing continuing Duscar rebellions in his own territories. Grand Duke Rufus Blaidydd had pledged aid, but any companies from Fhirdiad had yet to arrive. Probably another empty promise from the man. However, Count Galatea, Margrave Gautier, and Duke Fradalrius responded at once, each sending a levy of cavalry to aid the Central Church, including a full flight of pegasus Knights. Rhea had been quick to reply back with her own pledges of mutual defense and assistance.

There had been no response from House Rowe, but it was possibly preoccupied with guarding its own borders from its recalcitrant vassal. House Dominic also replied with many excuses, citing political neutrality in any conflict of the faith. And her letters to the bishops and priests of the Western Church were met with responses approaching open hostility. Their missives cited ominous quotes of the Book of Seiros in their replies to her, especially the ones concerning corruption and tyranny, yet still they promised to put aside their “differences” to attend the upcoming Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth. Those replies had been anything but reassuring, which was likely their point.

She would not let another schism affect her Church. Not now, when her Mother had finally revealed herself, in the form of the strong and silent blue haired child in white plate and chain standing before her. For far too long, Rhea felt she had tolerated heresy, blasphemy, and apostasy.

No more.

She addressed the assembly. “The time is now upon us to fulfill our sacred oaths to the Goddess. By his own words and deeds, Lonato Gaspard, once a Lord and Knight of the Holy Kingdom, has fallen away from the Church of Seiros and rejected in the depths of his eternal soul the promise of the Goddess’ everlasting love and mercy. Worse, he has deceived others to follow him on his path of damnation, turning them from the Word of Seiros with falsehoods and slanders, and has encouraged lawlessness and rebellion, causing misery and woe for countless innocents. Though he once walked through these halls and worshipped at our side as a child of the Goddess, we must harden our hearts and raise our hand to strike him down, for by his own volition he has already cut himself away from the Holy Body. For those who wish to cast themselves willingly into the darkness, there can be no return to the Light.”

Affirming nods all around her, yet none spoke. Rhea’s bright green eyes centered on Byleth, standing at attention before her. It might be too soon...but no, Rhea reminded herself. After hundreds of years, her faith was rewarded. So she must nurture it and maintain it still, and allow Mother to demonstrate her power through her vessel.

“Knight Byleth Eisner, step forward.”

There was a restless shuffle among the Knights as the young woman did as she was asked, kneeling in front of Lady Rhea. The Archbishop placed a pale loving hand on top of the blue hair. “Knight Byleth, you are hereby placed in command of the Knights of Seiros and our loyal allies for this mission, as Knight-General Byleth. You are charged with the punishment of Lonato Gaspard and his band unshriven heretics, will execute them for the crimes of High Treason, Sedition, and the foul promotion of Heresy and Schism.” There were gasps and whispers at the pronouncement, but Rhea watched with interest as the woman said nothing, hiding her surprise only with a quick swallow. She bowed her head in submission before the Archbishop. “In the name of Seiros, I will do your will, Lady Rhea,” Byleth said in a clear voice.

Rhea smiled in deep satisfaction. “Bless you, my child. May the Goddess protect you and guide you.”

*

Claude lingered in the Golden Deer classroom after Professor Jeralt dismissed the students. Leonie, Raphael and Ignatz went to watch the Knights ride out from Garreg Mach, while Hilda announced she was off to visit Marianne in the infirmary, to discuss how they should decorate their room together. Lorenz was working on a private project involving something magical and tea. And Lysithea immediately made a beeline to the library.

The news had already filtered through the entire monastery, and Claude could tell his scarred old Professor was worried, even though he didn’t show it at all. But maybe he was off-balance enough for some gentle probing, or maybe even something more if Claude was lucky.

“So, Captain Teach, your daughter is hardly a Knight for a month, and now she’s in command of an expeditionary force. Rhea obviously thinks a lot of her,” he said without preamble.

“Rhea obviously is mentally deteriorating in her old age, you mean,” muttered the ex-Knight, sorting through stacks of paper on his desk before him. He looked up with a scowl. “Is this a social visit, Claude, or do you actually have a point to make?”

“Well, I guess my point is why pick Byleth as a leader? Why not Alois, or Catherine? Someone more trusted by the majority of the Knights?”

“Why don’t you ask the Archbishop yourself instead of bothering me about it? Just because I’m an old Knight doesn’t mean I can see into her head.”

Claude smiled and leaned back against a desk. “I can imagine how that would go. Let’s just say I’m asking you because even my danger sense is starting to tingle. Mysterious attacks, mysterious Crests, mysterious ex-Knights, mysterious new Knights, with a mysterious Archbishop doing mysterious acts for mysterious reasons…”

“You’re not exactly on the straight and level yourself, Golden Boy,” Jeralt snorted.

“Touché, Teach. But still, if you need someone to talk to about all of these mystery events, I’m always here to offer an outside perspective.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

An artful shrug. “Maybe I get to know you guys better? Also, I won’t blab to anyone about there’s a new unmarried Holy Knight of Seiros with a mystery Crest…”

Jeralt rose slowly out of his chair, standing tall over his shorter student, his gauntleted knuckles resting on his desk. “Claude,” he said easily, his face serious, “are you seriously trying to blackmail me?”

He raised his eyebrows innocently. “Now, that’s just one very negative way of seeing things, Teach. Maybe I’m just pointing out that we’re kind of tied to the hip already, and we’re much more useful to each other as lifelong friends and companions. I like you, Captain Jeralt, because you look like you’ve seen it all, you’re obviously not a zealous follower of the Goddess, and you’re also not prejudiced, like most people in Fodlan. So you’re a rare breed, and there’s definitely something special about Byleth. So I get to know about you and maybe you get to know about me. And also...maybe you don’t kill me right now in the bargain for this little speech? That would be a nice bonus.”

The teacher and student stared at each other for a long moment.

With a smirking grunt, Jeralt smiled. “Fine, Duke boy. We’ll do it your way. But you threaten me or my daughter again, and I’ll haul you up to Seteth, have a long talk with him, with the end result being either Lorenz or Lysithea named the new House Leader of the Golden Deer, and you being sent back to wherever the hell you came from. Deal?

“Deal, Captain Teach,” smiled Claude, quickly rubbing the back of his neck, hoping it hadn’t been too obvious how bad he was sweating.

Jeralt eyed the position of the sun in the window. “And in fact, maybe you can help me right now,” he said, grabbing his papers and moving towards the door. “Follow me.”

“Ah...really? Sure, with what?” 

“Marianne’s father, Margrave Edmund is here. I have a meeting with him in my office. Want to tag along?”

Claude grinned in delight. He could be useful right from the start. “Actually, yeah I do. There’s something we need to talk about privately, Captain Teach...”

*

An impatient demand. “Do you have it?”

A silky baritone. “I do indeed. Do you have your research?”

A page and a box quickly changed from two equally pale pairs of hands in the library.

Lysithea clutched the stiff paper box to her chest, her nostrils already inhaling the divine fragrance concealed inside. “There. I don’t know why you’re so interested in getting me to do this, by the way. Linhardt or Professor Hanneman are the better choices.”

Perusing the contents briefly, Hubert folded the note and placed it within his uniform jacket. “Professor Hanneman could not help me, sadly. Lady Rhea has prevented him from sharing the results of his research publicly at this time. And Linhardt is unreliable at best, while you are a hard-working individual willing to accept...compensation.”

Lysithea’s mouth was beginning to water in anticipation, but she swallowed and said, “Well, I could only narrow the possibilities down. And it’s still possible it may be a Major Crest not seen in quite a few generations. Like Macuil, Cichol, or Indech…”

“Thank you for the reminder of how low the Imperial nobility has fallen.”

“Are you positive you don’t want to share a bite with me?” she pleaded. “I love it, but this might be too much for me. I don’t want to accidentally make myself sick and waste time by going to the infirmary.”

Hubert shook his head. “I despise sweet things.”

Lysithea nearly dropped her magnificent bounty. “You did not just say that. I misheard.”

“No, you heard me quite clearly. A sweet tooth was one of the things I never developed in my childhood. No time for it.”

“So your time was better invested in becoming tall, dark, and creepy? There simply has to be one thing you indulge in.”

Hubert smiled down at her. “Well, obviously--”

Lysithea halted him with a glare. “If you say Edelgard, that really does not help with the creep factor. Trust me. It just doesn’t.”

“Fine. If you must know, my one weakness is coffee. It must be smuggled at great expense from Dagda, what with the last war and all. It helped me focus on my studies, and I’ve come to prefer it to tea nowadays.”

“Coffee?” the small magician retched. “Why not just boil some water and throw some dirt in it? Far cheaper and more efficient.”

“Perhaps it does take a more mature palette to appreciate such complex and subtle flavors,” Hubert agreed smoothly.

“That’s one thing I’ll never have to worry about,” said Lysithea, feeling bitter herself now. But then the sweet aromas of spongy cake and fluffy icing distracted her once more. She had to get back to her room where no one would see her. Maybe she could eat half of it now, and then half of it later tonight. Her stomach ached happily at the thought.

She was almost to the door when she noted Hubert following her, his stride easily matching hers. “There is one thing I am curious about,” he said obliquely. “That spell you used to overcome me in the mock battle was...powerful.”

Lysithea refused to cran her neck up to look at him as she hurried down the stone halls. “Then maybe I’m just a better student than you, despite you being practically middle-aged. It’s not my fault you were held back so many times.”

“Please. I assure you that you have not seen the barest hint of what I can do. Being constrained by the rules of the game, I merely desired to remain by Lady Edelgard’s side rather than being expelled for slaughtering you or your classmates.”

She easily followed that threat with one of her own. “And I assure you that if you ever try that, your last remedial lesson will be in anatomy, as you watch with great interest your own heart ceasing to beat after I rip it from your chest. I’m not some weak girl you can intimidate with gory words, Hubert,” Lysithea sneered.

“Oh, I completely agree with you there. But...what if I came back from the dead to have my revenge?” An evil chuckle.

Lysithea stopped still in terror at the thought. No. Surely he wasn’t...he couldn’t do that…but he was just so creepy enough, that maybe...

Hubert smirked down at her through his dark, stringy hair one last time. “Do enjoy your cake, Lysithea. And try to sleep well tonight.”

*

Byleth almost wished she had never discovered emotions. In the Archbishop’s audience hall, they had almost made her collapse into a storm of laughing and crying from the shock of being promoted to a General. That was just a _weird_ feeling, and she didn’t like it.

However, the more she concentrated on the work necessary to be done in her new position as a Knight-Commander, she felt herself falling back into her old self and habits, as if there was something solid and cold within her, that she could still access and use at will. She quickly adopted into her stoic mannerisms once more, but noted with this time they acted as a place of safety and security, rather than wonder and confusion. It gave her the strength necessary to ignore Catherine’s jealous anger, Alois’ terrible attempts to lift morale, Trips’ and Zarad’s overbearing concern, and all the numerous and insufferable, inconsequential details that came with being in command. The constant defiance, the blatant disrespect, the unsubtle sneers and reflexive sarcasm. Did all people treat their leaders this way?

Byleth simply ignored all of it from her new officers and soldiers, and exercised her authority from the start. She was going to get things done, with an absolute minimum of bother. There were too few hours in the day for her to massage every bruised ego.

Most of the vertern Knight leaders greeted her politely in a meeting chamber next to the Knight’s quarters, understanding there was some nuance here behind Lady Rhea’s orders. To her surprise, all of the auxiliary officers were with her as well, with her reputation as the ‘Ashen Demon’ from her own father’s troops aiding her a great deal among the commoner soldiers. But there was one Knight, apparently the head of some knot of disaffected noble idiots, who confronted her as she was trying to introduce herself to the remaining officers. He interrupted her while she was speaking. “Lady Rhea is out of her mind if she believes I’m going to follow some common mercenary brat into battle!” the man spluttered, his handlebar mustache sending spittle through the air.

“Your name, Honored Knight?” Byleth asked calmly, not bothering to wipe her face.

The man drew himself up imperiously. “Sir Henry du Airimid, formerly of House Dominic. I have been a Knight of Seiros for longer than you’ve been alive!”

Byleth nodded and turned to the closest familiar face she could see, which luckily belonged to Shamir. “Sir Henry du Airimid is now stripped of his rank and command. Please escort him back to Lady Rhea’s chambers so that he may tell her personally she is out of her mind. If he resists, we will turn him over to a Holy Tribunal headed by Lord Seteth to face trial.”

The man gaped at her in horror, his face now a pasty white. Shamir had to almost push the bulky armored figure out of the room.

Despite her anger, Catherine added her voice in Byleth’s support after that, as well as a glowing, rambling, somewhat pointless story from Alois, but the man was nothing but effusive in his praise for her, so that helped. From there, the morning was filled with the logistical nightmare of moving the thousands of Knights and horses and pegasi from Garreg Mach in an orderly fashion.

It took all morning, but at noon they were ready to ride forth from the monastery, the loyal peasantry of the Central Church turning out to cheer and wave at the gleaming Central Church Knights in their bright armor. A column of fifteen hundred Knighted cavalry, with two thousand men-at-arms and Knight-errants on foot, with another two thousand auxiliaries and support troops, trickled down the hills and into the trailbroken forested roads to the west. Overhead on their flanks, there flew two hundred pegasus Knights as well, which she would use for recon and later as air support and harriers. They would barely make it out of sight of Garreg Mach’s walls before sundown, but they would eventually meet Lonato’s forces on the Magdred Way, which at last report were heading east towards Garreg Mach, looting villages for food and supplies as they passed, as well as possibly swelling their numbers. Lonato had barely three hundred Knights and horses, along with whatever mercenaries, peasant children, and old soldiers he had following him on foot. But every report said the peasant army was poorly trained, poorly armed, and poorly disciplined.

Lonato and his Knights would fight, and die, for their beliefs. The mercenaries would probably flee at the first sign of battle, and turn to banditry. The peasants would try to make a stand, then scatter in every cardinal direction. They would have to be cornered and hunted down. It was going to be a slaughter.

Byleth, Knight-General of the Church of Seiros, was no longer eager to prove herself on the field.

*

Marianne sat in her chair, for once looking proud to be in Garreg Mach Academy uniform. The Margrave and Hilda sat nearby, with Jeralt and Claude standing aside by the door.

“Yes, Father. I am certain of my decision.”

Margrave Edmund was silent as he studied his adopted daughter before he spoke. “There is danger headed this way, Marianne. And somehow word has leaked widely of your...condition. I do not wish to cause you anymore suffering. I have many hidden chateaux and estates. Or else we could travel by ship, and leave Fodlan altogether for a time.”

“Wherever I go there will be danger,” she said bitterly, hugging herself. “But at least here, I’ve found someone who knows how I feel. And I don’t know how...but…I believe the Goddess wants me to be here. Despite...everything.”

“But you would be reminded of everything that has happened, child. That would be a risk. And I do not wish to force Archbishop Rhea into...difficulty, of having to make a choice between you and an ignorant mob. Your safety is paramount to me.”

“My safety means nothing to you!” sobbed Marianne suddenly, raising her voice. “I’m just another money-making scheme to you! Go away! I don’t want to see you anymore! My life has been horrible ever since I’ve met you!” She reflexively jumped from the chair to move to the door, but cried bitterly when she remembered she could not leave the infirmary without someone by her side. Hilda and one of the sisters on nurse duty immediately moved to attend to her.

“Oh, you poor sweetie, let’s go over here for a moment, ok? I’ve shouted at my dad before too, but never like that…” Hilda’s eyes caught Claude’s, and the young Duke skillfully motioned the Margrave out the door with his Professor to give his daughter time to compose herself. 

When the door latch closed, the short Margrave let out a slow breath to the other two men. “My Lords, I am sorry you witnessed that. Now you see my difficulty. For some reason, she remains beyond my comprehension. Or else I remain beyond hers.”

“Your Grace, I’ve made the same mistake as well. It took her trying to hang herself to finally make me pay proper attention to her. So please believe me when I say however badly you feel about it, I feel even worse. At least you were on your estates. I was here right by her side and did nothing,” sighed Claude with regret.

The Margrave bowed. “Lord Claude, please. I do not blame you. But I thank you for your kind words.”

“Lady Marianne is a kind girl,” said Jeralt slowly. “I think in her talent for healing others, her care for animals...there’s still the real Marianne deep down inside of her. But from what Lady Beatrix and you have told me, there’s something in her that acts like she’s been betrayed. I’ve seen this happen sometimes. Some people are gentle and good-natured, and then something bad happens to them that they can’t explain, or can’t make sense out of it. So then they turn the complete opposite, and assume everyone is bad. Including themselves.”

“Something of that nature happened to me,” nodded the Margrave in sympathy. “My first family was struck down by the plague. I fell ill as well, yet it was only after that my fever broke that I learned my wife and sons had passed. I was not able to attend their funerals. When my strength returned...my workhouses and businesses were all that I had left. So I threw myself into rebuilding them, not out of ambition necessarily, but out of...survival, perhaps.”

Claude’s eyes lit up. “That’s it.”

“What is it, Gold--er, my Lord Duke,” Jeralt coughed roughly in correcting himself.

Claude almost grinned but managed to stay solemn as he explained himself. “Your Grace, I think we can agree Marianne is in a precarious position. Somehow, I think she’s been reliving what happened to her. And I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, Your Grace, but when Marianne sees you, she’s simply reminded of her birth parents.”

“I have never attempted to replace them, my Lord Duke,” said the Margrave, growing angry.

“What I believe Claude’s trying to say,” said Jeralt, glaring the younger man into submission, “is that young people can act out in ways you don’t expect. I have a daughter, You Grace, so let me tell you a story through hard-learned experience. I raised my daughter to be the best damn swordswoman in Fodlan, but I had trouble preparing her for the killing part. At first, she handled it fine, but as the months wore on, I could tell it was getting to her. She wasn’t eating, or taking care of herself. So I wanted to get her to sit down, take a break, and talk it out. To let everyone know what she felt about that last mission, or the people we had to cut down. By talking it out, she could let herself know how she was feeling, and could finally get back onto an even keel.”

“But my daughter and I were talking just now, Captain. I must confess I do not understand.”

“Well, here’s the thing. It turned out I couldn’t be the one to talk to her,” said Jeralt, tapping himself with his thumb. “Byleth for a long time was almost willing to do anything to impress me. Or kill anyone to impress me. She thought she had to prove herself to me, and that meant showing she wasn’t weak. So every time I tried to bring it up, she shut me down before we even got started. And then we just did it all over again.”

The Margrave was silent as he absorbed these words, while Claude tried his best to hide his keen interest.

Claude discreetly motioned for permission to speak, and eventually the ex-mercenary relented. “Hey, sorry, Your Grace, if I offended you. But for what my opinion’s worth, I think the Professor’s right. You guys are trapped in a cycle of where you try to keep giving her the world, but she doesn’t want it...because deep down, she thinks she doesn’t deserve it.”

“So you believe I must leave her...here, at Garreg Mach,” the short nobleman said quietly.

“It’s something she can throw herself into,” Claude said, meeting the man’s eyes. He could see that the Margrave was starting to agree, then added, “I could help her write to you about her progress, if you like. I know she has trouble with words sometimes. And we--all of her friends here--can begin chipping away at the walls she’s built around herself.”

“A regular line of written communication between the two of you,” nodded Jeralt. “I think that would be a good idea. We can hold her to that.”

*

Dimitri paused, hesitating before the door.

There was a high probability he was simply going to make things worse. Ashe was intimidated by him at the best of times, and often expressed difficulty as seeing him as a fellow classmate and soldier. But what kind of Prince, what kind of King would he be, if he simply turned his back on someone’s suffering, merely for the sake of his own convenience?

Resolved, Dimitri raised a black gloved hand and rapped gently on the door.

There was a muffled “Coming” from inside, and soon the portal opened, with Lord Lonato’s adopted son standing before him, his eyes red and his freckled face downcast.

“What can I do for His Highness?” mumbled Ashe.

Dimitri was silent for a moment, the sense of dread returning. He tried to ignore it and instead quietly asked, “May I come in?”

Ashe listlessly stepped away from the door, turning his back on his Prince.

Alarmed now, Dimitri stepped inside and closed the door. The room was dim aside from small shafts of sunlight, and there was a definite odor of malaise as well. He could not smell it, but it was bad enough to bring tears to his eyes. His vision slowly adjusted to see Ashe seated despondently at his writing desk.

“Ashe, I am sorry. I grieve at this situation as much as you do. I wish...I wish I could change it for you. You deserve better.”

Silence.

He tried again. “Sometimes...life doesn’t make sense. We think we have answers, but we don’t. So it can feel comforting...to fall into a black despair, where things do make sense. To embrace futility. Hopelessness. And...death.”

Ashe was silent again, but he stirred slightly at Dimitri’s words.

“I nearly lost myself to that black madness four years ago, my friend. Dedue...he saved me. He helped me live. And just recently, with Lady Marianne…we nearly lost...” Dimitri broke off, unable to continue.

Putting his hands to his face, Ashe began to tremble.

Mastering himself, Dimitri continued. “But outside of this room Ashe...outside of yourself...there’s me. And Dedue. Ingrid and Sylvain, Mercedes and Annette. Even Felix. All of us want to listen to you. To be with you. Your pain...we feel it too. We suffer with you, although...we can never know it truly. But our hands are there. Waiting for you. Your family. And even Lord Lonato, in his terrible madness and grief. We can take your pain...the pain of life...because one day, you will be strong enough to live it again. I swear this to you.”

“I’m sorry...Highness,” said Ashe, his voice low. “I wish I could believe that. I really do…”

Dimitri shook his head. “I’m not asking for you to change today, Ashe. Or even tomorrow, or a week, or a month from now. You do not have to ‘cheer up.’ But...may I at least escort you to the dining hall? We can eat together. Without speaking. And I will have some staff clean your room, so things may be brighter upon your return.”

Slowly, Ashe nodded. Dimitri smiled gently and opened the door, allowing sunlight and fresh air to work their usual wonders. It had eventually worked for him, years before.

* 

“C’mon, Mercie, we’re gonna miss them!” Annette yelled behind her as she sprinted ahead, racing towards the edge of the parade of the Knights.

Panting, Mercedes tried her best to keep up, her pony tail and sweater falling apart as she tried to match her friend’s rush. “Ah...Annie...wait...please…”

“Here, lean on me, Mercedes...trust me, there’s absolutely no hurry…” said Sylvain, moving with gallant eagerness to lend the blonde woman a hand and assist her through the crowd.

“Do you even stop for a second of the day?” groaned Felix beside him.

“Nope!” grinned Sylvain, linking his arm with Mercedes’ own. She was so out of breath she did not bother to protest.

Annette couldn’t hear her friends, unfortunately, as she weaved between the rest of the crowd with delighted ease. _Sometimes being small and short was really convenient!_ she thought in pure joy. Sure, she bumped into people and things occasionally, like barrels, but everyone was waving and shouting at the Knights anyway. She caught a glimpse of Knight Byleth, the Commander for the forces in the lead; maybe her father would be somewhere nearby, at the head of the column.

A susurrating roar went up around her, and in a flash, all these bellies and arms and, oh yuck, even some butts from the crowd were pressing up against her as she was suddenly wedged in tight between two laborers. She felt like a piece of flotsam carried out to tide. Now being small and short seemed really, really inconvenient.

She was being jostled by the milling peasants around her, and as they leaned forward to the edge of the street barricade that allowed the Knights clear passage, she saw they were forcing her towards a large old man’s backside near the edge of the crowd. His rough hewn pants and belt were...inadequate.

Really, super, incredibly, tremendously inconvenient…

“One side, you rude mechanicals! Do not treat a noble lady so!” a male voice cried, and with some shoving and grunting, a hand reached out and grasped her own and pulled her free of the press. She was lifted easily by strong arms that set her down gently by a large wooden post of a closed merchant’s stall, where she could finally breathe again.

Shaking from her near-brush with absolute grossness, Annette looked up to see her savior. It was the Black Eagle, Ferdinand. He turned his back dismissively at the jeers from men nearby and said earnestly, “Are you well, Lady Annette? I am glad I saw you in time!”

“Y-yeah. I think. Oh, wow, thanks a bunch, Ferdinand!” she sighed in relief, with a shudder. “I guess I got seperated from my friends, trying to watch the Knights…”

“Annette, you have my sympathies. I know it can be difficult for people like us to stand out in a crowd,” said the Imperial Princess nearby, standing eye level with her.

“That’s right, that’s why Edelgard brought us to be her bodyguards,” bragged Caspar, standing next to her with his arms folded. Linhardt was leaning heavily against Caspar’s back, half-asleep. Petra barely shifted a glance in her direction, quickly classifying her as not a threat, and turned her head once more to examine the crowd, a hand on her sword.

“Why am I here again--?” Linhardt mumbled, but it was lost as the crowd roared again. The Knights in the lead of the column were passing them by.

“Um, ohhh, noooooo--!” cried Annette, her red pigtails bouncing as she hopped from one foot to the other. “I’m missing them! I need to find him!”

“Who you lookin’ for?” asked Caspar curiously. A snore from Linhardt.

Annette whirled around herself, considering each of them. Linhardt was asleep, while Caspar was strong enough, but barely taller than she was, and Edelgard was calmly staring at her...but no, asking that of royalty just felt wrong. Petra was too busy in her duty to even notice her. So that left…

“Ferdinand!” she ran to his side, eyes wide in an appeal. “There’s someone I need to find among the Knights! Can you give me a boost? Um...I need to stand on your shoulders!”

“Ahm...well, Lady Annette, that is rather…” said Ferdinand nervously, a hand going to the back of his orange locks.

“What a proper and accurate assessment of Ferdinand’s capabilities. You heard the noble lady, my lord,” smiled Edelgard, clearly enjoying the moment. “Surely you would not be so rude and thoughtless as to decline her request?”

“Well, no, of course not!” sputtered Ferdinand defensively. “As a true noble, it is expected of me to meet her plea for aid. It’s just that…”

“Great! Thanks Ferdinand, you’re the best in the land!” interrupted Annette happily, and began climbing. She almost lost her balance when Ferdinand belatedly bent lower to assist her, but with a wobble managed to get both of her feet on his shoulders.

She nearly fell again as Ferdinand rose to his full height. Annette found herself going up, and up, and up…

Her stomach nearly flipped out of her mouth, but she felt Ferdinand holding firmly on to her ankles. Annette experienced a brief moment of transcendence, as if she was analyzing her own mind as she thought. At one instant she felt like a bird almost, because she didn’t think she had ever been so high above other people in her life. The other was curiously and analytically remarking at how she was so reckless to trust a boy she hardly knew with her safety. She tried to ignore the inner dialogue, because now she could clearly see the Knights, and smell the horses, and peer close at each face riding by, trying to see someone familiar…

Annette did her best not to fidget on her perch, but as the minutes passed with more and more Knights riding by, she realized that her hopes were foolish. The vast majority of Knights were helmed, and she did not see any glimpse of red and white hair among the other men. Her one best chance to find her father was simply passing her by, and now the noises and sights just grated on her nerves as a new rush of bitter disappointment filled her. He was probably going to die in the upcoming battle like an idiot, and she would never see him again, or even know his final fate. She had worked long and hard for absolutely nothing.

Climbing down on Ferdinand’s back, Annette struggled to put on a brave smile to the Black Eagles in gratitude. “Um...thanks, Ferdinand. I really mean it. But I didn’t see him…”

“Do you know someone among the Knights of Seiros, Lady Annette?” he asked gently.

“Well, no...but I thought I might,” sniffed Annette. “I guess you should know after I made such a big deal about it. I’m looking for my father. He was a Knight of the Kingdom, but he disappeared after the Tragedy. I haven’t seen him since then, and since he was so faithful to the Goddess, I thought he might have taken Holy Vows as a Knight of Seiros…”

“And he thought his faith could be a replacement for his family?” said Edelgard in amazed disgust. “Annette, I am so sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, um, thanks. But I’m mainly upset that he just...left. Without so much as a good-bye. And I don’t hate him...I think,” Annette sniffed, wiping her eyes. “I just want to hear why he did it, from his own mouth. Why did he leave me and Mom alone? We just miss him. That’s all,” she said in a voice as small as herself.

“Your dad better hope he’s not around here. I’d kick his ass!” declared Caspar, shadowboxing the air. Linhardt somehow remained asleep against him. Petra shook her head briefly and ignored the idiosyncrasies of Fodlan nobility once more.

“I would not take it that far, but I would most certainly have words for the man,” said Ferdinand grimly. “To put yourself, no matter how deep your own shame and regret, over the needs of your family shows a blatant disregard of every principle of noble character!”

“You guys don’t get it!” yelled Annette, feeling absurd but also indignant. “I don’t want to judge my father! I really don’t! I just want to find him! I just want to see him!” she sniffed again, hating herself for breaking down. “I just want to know if he’s still around…”

Ferdinand was immediately abashed by his behavior. “Please forgive us, Lady Annette. You are right that we should not jump to conclusions. I do hope you find your father one day and that it is an occasion of joy for you,” he said with a bow.

“Oh, Annie--! There you are! We were so worried,” said Mercie, pushing Sylvain away and hurrying up to her side as the rest of the Blue Lions approached 

“Why is Annette crying?” asked Felix quietly as he stepped forward, his left hand on his sword sheath and his thumb on the hilt.

“Felix. There is misunderstanding. But no closer,” warned Petra by Edelgard’s side, her own hand on her sword, although she started to look excited.

Edelgard stepped forward to ease the tension, although Felix was smiling at Petra. “Lady Annette was looking for her missing father. Ferdinand graciously assisted her to try and find him among the Knights of Seiros, but I am afraid her disappointment is proving too much to bear at the moment.”

“Oh, you mean Lord Gustav?” nodded Sylvain in recognition. “Yeah, there were rumors he bailed on the Kingdom four years ago. It was said he thought he had failed King Lambert and Prince Dimitri, so he couldn’t return home.”

“Another old man who used the death of others to flaunt his ego,” muttered Felix, locking his sword back in place and folding his arms, still eyeing Petra. She soon grinned broadly at only something she could see and nodded.

“I’m sorry for being such a bother, everyone,” said Annette, wiping her eyes with Mercedes’ handkerchief. “No one needs to worry about my messed up family…”

Ferdinand said sternly, “You are wrong, Annette. Seeing you in distress is cause enough to look for your father. I promise that I will help you find him, by my honor as a noble of the Empire.”

“What? Really?” Annette asked in astonishment.

“I promised to give you a boost, and yet you have not found your father. As far as I am concerned, my obligation to you is not fulfilled. I will help you find Lord Dominic, or my name is not Ferdinand von Aegir!”

*

“...and that is why I feel I cannot consider an engagement with Viscount Kleiman’s son at this time. Perhaps when I graduate, I will feel the confidence I need to choose a suitor with clear eyes and a gentle heart. Then sign!” Dorothea dictated as she waltzed around the dorm room.

Ingrid scratched out the last phrases with her quill on her desk, then set aside the parchment to dry. “And that’s another one down. Oh, Goddess, thank you so much, Dorothea. I don’t think I could have managed all of these on my own.”

“Well, your father does get points for persistence. Frankly, I’m a bit jealous,” said the songstress as she examined Ingrid’s pitifully bare make-up counter by the armoire with a critical eye, along with the tiny smudged mirror. “I wish I had a family that was helping me find a match.”

“Yes, yes, I know I should be grateful. And that’s why I struggle so much with these proposals. I know he just wants me to be taken care of. I know he’s just worried about me, and the family, and the future of our territory. But for some reason…” Ingrid trailed off, gazing into the distance.

“Not just ‘some reason,’ dear,” Dorothea lectured. “If you feel like you don’t want to marry, you shouldn’t be forced into it. Be confident in your feelings, because no one else can really know them.” Then she laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m starting to sound like Professor Manuela to you.”

“I just wish I had some of your confidence,” Ingrid sighed, looking at the letter.

“Oh, trust me Ingrid, this isn’t confidence, it’s a facade,” smiled Dorothea easily. “Now that that’s done, shall we go for a walk before lunch? With everyone watching the Knights, we should have our first choice of food.”

Ingrid’s eyes lit up and Dorothea almost laughed again in amusement. The way to this Knight’s heart was definitely through her stomach. She would have to ask Bern or Manuela for serious cooking lessons.

As the two students left Ingrid’s room and walked down the stairs, Ingrid tried to explain herself once more. “I’ve tried to stand firm on my dreams, but he is starting to wear me down. Even the tuition to come to Garreg Mach was almost too much for our family, but we finally managed to sell off some land to the freeholders. And the only reason he agreed was because he thought I might ‘fall in love’ here.”

“You’d think he’d realize it’s a little early in the semester for that,” Dorothea teased. “After all, you have yet to go on a single date. Granted, the pickings are slim…”

“Tell me about it,” Ingrid grumbled. “Like I would go on a date with Felix or Sylvain. Or His Highness. I honestly think I would die from the humiliation. I bet you have the same trouble in your class.”

“Oh, definitely. Caspar is sweet but a bit dim, and Ferdie is...Ferdie. Hubie wouldn’t let any other woman come between him and his ‘Lady Edelgard,’ and Lin only cares about books. Edie...that just feels wrong, like you feel about Dimitri I guess, while Bern has even more issues than I do. Petra is certainly attractive, and a Princess to boot, but you told me she was seeing Felix…” Dorothea trailed off as she noticed Ingrid staring at her in amazement. “What is it, dear?”

“How can you do that so flippantly?” asked Ingrid, shaking her head. “Doesn’t the thought of two women being together just...I don’t know. Doesn’t it seem unnatural?”

“No more unnatural than two men being together dearie,” winked Dorothea. “Trust me, it happens a lot more often than you think. Don’t you ever wonder about your Prince and Dedue?”

“Oh, just about all the time,” growled Ingrid as they exited the dorms. “That damn Duscarman follows him around day and night. Even into his bedroom. It’s embarrassing to the Kingdom as a whole, but Dimitri won’t hear of any alternatives.” The Kingdom noble eyed the commoner. “I mean, wouldn’t it bother you if you heard Petra and Edelgard were spending days and nights together?”

Dorothea grinned playfully to her blonde friend. “Well, yes. Frankly, I would feel deeply offended...that they didn’t think to invite me to join them…”

“Oh Goddess no! Please no! You are so...so...I don’t know what you are!” said Ingrid, torn in between disgust, exasperation, and amusement. “I already have enough trouble managing one friend’s escapades. Please don’t add yourself to the list, Dorothea.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, my sweet Ingrid. Truth be told, I’ve taken myself off of the market for a while. Mainly for the reasons we just said...the pickings are too slim at the moment,” sighed Dorothea as they walked past the docks to the river.

“Oh c’mon. What about the Golden Deer? I’d bet my lance you’ve considered some of them,” challenged Ingird.

“Briefly. Very briefly. Ignatz is attractive, in a cute submissive sort of way, but too meek for my personality. And while Raphael has some very nice muscles, he is sweet and dim just like Caspar. Claude is...well, let’s just say he’s very exotic and appealing, but…”

“I think I know what you mean. He’s so...afraid. Or something. He never likes to talk about himself. He’s friendly but...somehow...oh, I’m not making sense….”

“No, sweetie, I think you are. Take it from someone who knows...Claude is acting like someone who’s been hurt in the past. And he’s doing his best to minimize his risk of being hurt again. But we’re digressing, aren’t we? Finally, there’s our noble Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, who has money, looks, nobility…”

“...and is a total ass.” Ingrid grinned, elbowing Dorothea.

Dorothea grinned back. “Yes. The biggest ass in Fodlan. After all,” she said in a fair imitation, “nothing less than being the biggest jerk-ass in Fodlan would be a worthy title for Lorenz Hellman Gloucester!”

Ingrid leaned hard against her as they both laughed about that. Dorothea’s heart pounded with the contact, but she smiled back as if nothing was wrong in the world with her friend. This was just going to end in heartbreak for both of them. She wanted something from Ingrid that she couldn’t give her. _Why am I doing this to her?_ Dorothea reprimanded herself.

 _Why are you doing this to yourself?_ her mind replied smugly back at her.

Because it felt nice just to be near someone, damn it, thought Dorothea firmly as their laughter eased. Without herself getting in the way. Ingrid didn’t need to be bothered by her compulsive neediness, or her deep insecurities, or her fears of being unlovable. She just liked the facade. Dorothea herself liked the facade. Being friends was just mindless fun. No need to belabor the issue by becoming all serious if Ingrid didn’t see her that way.

She blinked to realize Ingrid was looking at her strangely, as if for the first time. Dorothea panicked, even as she bent her operatic skills to keep her face calm and composed. She was not ready for anything resembling the conversation she had just broached in her own mind. She did not want to be rejected again, or to listen to worthless, timid excuses, or to hear the ‘It’s healthier this way’ speech. She didn’t want to be healthy, Goddess damn it. She just wanted...someone who complimented her.

Salvation came from an unexpected corner, as Dorothea spied something that had to be seen to be believed. “Holy Seiros! Ingrid, we need to hide!” she exclaimed, grabbing the Blue Lion’s arm and dragging her past the staircase to the dining hall.

“What is it?” said Ingrid, playing along with her and following her gaze. Dorothea was grateful that the Crested noblewoman trusted her enough to follow her lead. She shushed her friend with hand waves and pointed to the two figures walking to the greenhouses, one short, one tall. Both were wearing matching white chef hats. They could just barely hear them over the waterfall of the magical river dock.

“...the recipe is different based on what you need. The one I used had tarragon, but you can make it with savory, or thyme, or marjoram. Or even all four! I’ve tried different combinations in the past…”

A deep modulated voice. “...and did your experimentation bear fruit?”

“....waaaaaait a second, did you just make a joke? You just De-did, didn’t you?” A nervous giggle.

“I was simply using an idiom…”

“Ohh, no you De-don’t! You’re just a big old softie, aren’t you?”

“I am hardly at the age to be considered ‘old.’”

“Ah! That was too much, wasn’t it?! I’m sorry…!”

“Please calm yourself, Bernadetta. We need precise clippings from the herb garden…”

“R-right! Um...Bernie’s on the job!”

Both Dorothea and Ingrid’s jaws were left hanging as the pair wandered by their hiding place into the gardens. The actress recovered first, and whispered, “Did you just see what I saw?”

“Dedue was talking to someone other than Dimitri,” Ingrid whispered back, still shocked. “He hardly ever does that.”

“And Bernadetta _never_ leaves her room voluntarily. Ever. And she’s chatting him up like they’re…”

“No way,” Ingrid shook her head.

"Then they're wearing matching..."

Another denial, louder. "No. Way."

“Oh Goddess, I’m so proud of Bern! She really is growing up!” Dorothea exulted in a squealing whisper.

“No way!” said Ingrid even more loudly now, her mouth still hanging open.

“Why not?” suggested Dorothea with broad smile. “They’re the ones who volunteer for kitchen duty the most. Perhaps they’ve bonded together while making all of our delicious meals!”

Ingrid was so dazed by what they had seen that Dorothea had to gently lead her into the dining room. “Bernadetta and Dedue...I would have never have thought…” the Blue Lion trailed off.

Dorothea hugged Ingrid’s strong arm with something more than affection, not that the noblewoman knew. “Well my dear. This just goes to show we shouldn’t live by assumptions. For all that we know, love may even bloom in the most unlikeliest of places!”

*

A lazy week passed by for the students of Garreg Mach. With the majority of Knights absent, the students spent their afternoons in differing pursuits, since a majority of the training specialists were absent. That did not prevent students such as Felix, Dimitri, Leonie, Ingrid, Caspar, and Raphael from spending long hours with Professor Jeritza in the Training Hall. Likewise, magic using students such as Hubert, Lysithea, Linhardt, Annette, and Lorenz spent most of their time in the library studying new applications for anima. Marianne spent her time in the company of Hilda, Mercedes, and Bernadetta, under the supervision of Professor Manuela, who was insulted and angry enough by Seteth’s completely baseless accusations that she proved to be an upstanding role model for the week. Others, like Dedue, Ignatz, Dorothea, and Sylvain, decided this was a perfect time to pursue their own private projects, whether it was cooking, art, or romance.

Including one Claude von Riegan.

Claude closed the forbidden volume, having just finished the last page in the privacy of his room. He had learned enough from the book he had nicked from the library. There was more to the ancient War of Heroes and founding of the Church of Seiros than what was on public record, although the tome had been written with so much religious allegory and metaphor it was unclear what was literal and what was figurative. It was clear the Church was hiding secrets concerning its origins, but whatever the motivation was, he couldn’t seem to come up with a good theory to fit all the variables. The Church of Seiros had had dozens of Archbishops throughout the centuries; how could all of them keep this sacred knowledge in confidence? Then there were the hundreds of secret cardinals throughout the years; how had all of them remain so loyal and so true to the Church, that in more than a thousand years, no Cardinal’s identity had been exposed or discovered? His mind kept shying away from the answer, but it persistently returned to it time and time again.

The Goddess really existed. Byleth had been right all along.

It was the only thing he could think of that would be powerful enough to keep the Church hierarchy in line for hundreds of years. The thought of some invisible, intangible force witnessing his every word and deed made his skin crawl, and Claude shuddered involuntarily. But there was too much evidence that some inhuman strength was flexing its will upon Fodlan, moving human lives about like pawns on a chessboard. The entire noble system of Fodlan owed its existence to the Goddess. The Church kept that system in place, no matter the behavior of said nobles, unless they rebelled against the Church itself. Then the Knights, a small but elite cadre of shocktroops, many of them former nobility themselves, moved ruthlessly to crush any dissent. He wondered if Byleth now thought being a Holy Knight was all she had hoped it would be. Be careful what you wish for…

The thought of dissent gave him some pause. Lonato had rebelled, but his rebellion was centered against Rhea herself, and there had been numerous other rebellions against the Church in the past, such as Loog’s rebellion or his own House of Riegan leading the charge against the Holy Kingdom. But those had been careful to distinguish themselves as secular, political matters, merely pitting noble against noble. So the Church tolerated a degree of dissent, so long as that dissent was not focused against the authority of the Central Church itself. Even Captain Teach, for all of his disagreements with the Church, didn’t even seem to countenance outright defiance against the Archbishop. If his Professor was intimidated by Rhea, then Claude definitely felt so.

Claude rubbed a hand on his wrist, feeling his pulse. He didn’t feel special, or different, or blessed by any divine force. Even so, he had to acknowledge that training in matters of war had always come easily to him. The first time he had held a bow and arrow, he had instinctively known what it was for and how to use it, able to pull the drawstring before Nader could even show him how. Maybe his mother had pushed him so hard in his childhood training because she was trying to get him to understand his natural advantages. Even so, such “gifts” were a mixed blessing at best. They didn’t turn enemies into friends, or feed him when he was hungry, or prevented him from being poisoned. So the Goddess of Fodlan had made it easy for him to shoot arrows. Big whoop.

But...the Goddess was supposedly dead. That had been the entire point behind ‘healing the land’ and ‘granting divine power’ to mortal intermediaries, like the Saints and King Nemesis. He had attended enough Church services to understand that at least. If the Goddess or something like her was real...were the ‘dark gods’ of the ancient past real as well? Now Claude well and truly shivered. Imagining a benign deity was bad enough. A malicious one was too nightmarish to contemplate.

A knock on his door roused him from his contemplation.

Claude quickly moved the large book beneath his bedding. “Coming!” he called out, quickly glancing around to make sure no other incriminating evidence was in sight. Probably one of his classmates coming to get him for training. Captain Teach had frowned on his many recent absences. Composing his face into a roguish smile, Claude opened his door.

He was not prepared for the bent figure in white robes standing before him. Tomas the librarian stood in his doorway, his leathery face showing the kindly smile of an old man as he leaned on his wooden cane. “Ah, young Claude,” he said in a voice as dusty as his bookshelves. “How are you this fine summer afternoon?” 

“Tomas! Um, what a surprise. What can I do for you?” Claude grinned, hating himself for sweating involuntarily in a guilty reaction.

“Oh, forgive me. I don’t usually make it a habit to disturb inquisitive young minds at work. And I don’t wish to cause you any more...discomfort...than absolutely necessary,” said the old man, his eyes twinkling. “But I have my duties and obligations as an old monk of the monastery. So...do you have it?”

“Aaahm....have what, Tomas? Nothing here in my room but dirty stockings and undergarments!” Claude protested, even as his mind realized he was well and truly busted.

“Come now, young man, let us speak plainly. You have recently taken something from the library’s archives. There is no shame in admitting your curiosity about the history of the Church. I’ve been the librarian of Garreg Mach for over forty years. Did you really think I would not realize something was missing?” The old man’s grin turned a bit sinister.

“You know, now that I think about it, a book may have accidentally, um, ended up in here?” said Claude, almost tripping over himself in his haste to retrieve the volume. His grin turned pleading as he proffered it to the librarian. “See? Good as new! Just me being curious little ol’ me. And no need to inform anyone else, right?”

“No, of course not,” chortled the elderly monk, tucking the large book under one voluminous sleeve. “We are merely two intellectuals, able to discuss matters in a calm and practical manner. How did you enjoy this history of the Goddess?”

“Um...well, it was interesting, but I guess...confusing? I’m not really good with symbolism or allegory.”

“It is distressing to hear that, but not unexpected. The Word of Seiros has become littered with ostentatious jargon and mixed metaphors these days, while the underlying message is all but lost. I argued long into the night with Rhea back when I had just taken my Holy Vows into the Adrestian Order…”

Claude blinked. “Wait. You knew Rhea...in your youth?”

The old man gave a diffident shrug. “Oh yes. She and Knight-Captain Jeralt were at Garreg Mach even before I was. Amazing how they have stayed so remarkably well-preserved over the decades, while my skin withered and my rheumatism twisted my back. The Goddess works in mysterious ways, I suppose, although I wish she was more free with her blessings. Perhaps you can broach the subject with your Professor one day.” Tomas gave one last kind smile to a shocked Claude. “Farewell, young Claude. If you ever feel the urge to broaden your mind in the future, remember you have but to ask me.”

*

“Where the hell are they? We should have found them by now.”

Byleth ignored Catherine’s question as she leaned over the map table in the command tent. It was merely stating the obvious. Shamir and Alois stood nearby, but they had no answers either. Even though it was morning, she still had to light a lantern to see inside the shadows of the tent.

A week marching west out of Garreg Mach, and all had been going well. The Knights had some of the best provisions and supplies, along with dedicated brothers and sisters devoted to keeping the soldiers and mounts healthy. The Magdred Way was wide and well-traveled, the ancient causeway still paved and marked in many places through the rolling hills of the western Oghma Mountains. Her pegasus mounted scouts had reported Lonato’s army was marching east in a slow fashion, towards their position. They were anticipated to meet them at dawn. Byleth had ordered entrenchments dug and palisades built from the nearby woods, and told her officers to be ready for a morning battle. The night watch had been tripled, just in case.

That morning, the fog had descended upon the entire army.

Fog in the forested mountains of western Faerghus wasn’t unusual. It was a disadvantage that would cripple both sides equally. Byleth had ordered all patrols back to their lines, and decided to wait Lord Lonato out. His supply situation should be much more tenuous than her own, and she was camped upon the main road and numerous mountain streams. Time was on her side, and Shamir, Catherine and Alois had agreed with her assessment.

They had been waiting for the past three days now.

“Shamir, take at least five squads to go up the road. We have to find them. Lonato may be trying to wait us out at the bottom of the hills at the edge of the mountains. There’s at least three villages nearby he could raid for food. He may be a rebellious fanatic, but he’s probably not suicidal. He’s not going to charge blindly ahead and stumble on us.”

“And if we have contact?” the ex-mercenary asked calmly.

“Get back as fast as you can. If you stay on the road you’ll lead them right to us.” No one mentioned that getting lost in this terrain and climate was likely a death sentence among hostile forces.

“It will be done,” Shamir nodded. Catherine slapped her on the shoulderguard as she walked past, deep worry in her eyes. The archer ignored the contact and began calling out for her men as she left the tent.

Byleth rubbed her eyes and looked at Catherine and Alois. Catherine was assessing her frankly, while even Alois looked worried. It was probably time to admit she was out of her element with this tactical conundrum. She had never been eager to recognize her own flaws, since she imagined she had plenty already. But now six thousand other souls were her responsibility. “If you need to say something, you have permission to speak,” she announced. “I need ideas. We’re missing something.”

“Yeah, like an entire army,” Catherine snarked.

“Now Catherine, don’t be too hard on our Commander. We know things have been fairly unclear lately. This is one mist-ery that we have to solve!” said Alois, waving his hand to the swirling clouds outside the tent flap.

Both Byleth and Catherine groaned, and Byleth could barely resist the urge to snap at the man. “Alois, I know you mean well...but stop. Please. Or I’m going to start making you dig latrines.”

“It’s funny, Captain Jeralt often used the same threat with me…” the Knight chuckled.

The two women did their best to ignore the Knight-Captain. “What would you do in Lonato’s place? You know him better than I do,” asked Byleth to the Holy Knight.

“Lonato’s after me,” predicted Catherine, a flash of deep regret on her face. “His son and I had...a history. Christophe was a great fighter, as strong as a Blaiddyd almost. But he got into political shit after we graduated from the Academy ten years ago.”

“What do you mean by ‘political shit?’”

Catherine looked away, lost in memories. “Christophe...wasn’t like most nobles. He was a kind man. Always going on and on about the people. He’d give a coin to any beggar who asked, or be the first to pledge help to anyone in need. For a noble...he was almost servile. He always put others ahead of himself. He hated the thought that he was special just because of his noble blood. Then he started running around with a group of freethinkers. Poets, artists, apprentices from the school of Sorcery. People who believed that change needed to come to Fodlan. I never put much stock into it, but...then the Tragedy happened,” Catherine said slowly.

“Go on,” grated Byleth. This would have been invaluable to know days earlier.

The blonde Knight sat heavily in Byleth’s cot, looking at her hands. “The day after we learned about the Tragedy in Fhirdiad, Christophe came to me and said we had to run and hide. We’d been together for years at that point. I trusted him with my life. And he trusted me. So I followed him.” Catherine swallowed and went on. “Then I learned his group was planning something else. Something even bigger than assassinating a King. Their next target was...Lady Rhea herself. Christophe wanted my help. Or more specifically, Thunderbrand’s help.”

“To kill Lady Rhea?” asked the Knight-General in amazement. Even Alois was shocked into silence.

“Yes,” Catherine whispered, not meeting their eyes. “I had to choose. Either the man I thought I was going to marry...or the most holy person I’ve ever met in my life.” Her blue eyes flashed up at them. “So I made my choice.”

“So that’s why the Church passed judgement on Lord Christophe,” murmured Alois.

Byleth watched the Holy Knight closely, then when the silence had stretched long, finally managed, “Thank you for telling me, Catherine. I’m sorry.” Were there any more useless and inadequate words than that? The depths of Catherine’s torment was not something she wished to examine too closely. Forcing herself to go on, Byleth looked at Alois and said, “So it’s personal for Lord Lonato. All of this religious zealotry is just cover for him getting revenge. He couldn’t rally the peasants to his side otherwise.”

“Then he may be planning a surprise attack. Him falling on our rear would bugger us pretty good,” nodded the Knight-Captain.

Byleth was too weary to acknowledge this latest pun. “Rotate the sentries again. I’ll send Zarad and some archer squads to cover our supply train on the road back to Garreg Mach. We have to make sure Lonato can’t bypass our position.” 

“Aye-aye, Commander,” saluted Alois with a mustached smile. He turned and left the tent as well.

Byleth and Catherine were left alone in the command tent.

The young commander finally felt she knew why Catherine sometimes seemed distant. So the Tragedy of Duscar had even impacted her. A noblewoman who had the misfortunate to love the wrong nobleman, and simply by being associated with him, had her entire Kingdom turn against her. She gave the woman a moment to collect herself, then walked over to stand over the Holy Knight. Byleth held out her hand. Slowly, Catherine noticed it, and allowed herself to be hauled up to her feet. Byleth held their grip for a moment, forcing the former Kingdom noble to look her in the eye. “Catherine. Thank you,” Byleth acknowledged.

“Don’t fucking worry about me,” Catherine growled, but a ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Thank me after I’ve gutted Lonato and he’s done screaming over his steaming entrails.”

“Only if I don’t get to him first,” smiled Byleth without humor.

“Maybe I’ll let you, if just to see what you can do,” said the Holy Knight. She stepped back and nodded at Byleth. “I have to admit, I had doubts. But you’ve held up better than I thought you could.”

“Blame my dad,” shrugged Byleth. No matter the depths of her self-discovery, she wouldn’t budge on this. She wasn’t special. She just happened to have special parents.

“I think I will. Lady Rhea has always gone on about Jeralt. After meeting you and your dad...I think I can see why.”

“You’ll find me less impressive when I’m snoring into my pillow,” Byleth admitted, finally feeling her fatigue.

Catherine’s eyes softened. “Get some rest. We’ll take care of things. You trust us, right?” 

“I do. I just don’t want something to happen…”

“None of that, now. This is war. If your soldiers have to be shaken awake for a battle, you can endure it as well. No one will blame you for being human,” Catherine told her.

Byleth unbuckled a strap and pulled her pauldrons off of her aching shoulders. “Fine. I need a nap. I haven’t slept in the past three days…”

“Damn, kid…”

That comment from Catherine was her last coherent memory. She didn’t remember laying down on her cot. The next thing Byleth knew she was being shaken awake, with Trips and Zarad standing over her. Her arm reached for a sword that wasn’t there, before she remembered how to make words. “What? What is it?” she gabbled out.

“Bad news,” Trips said, her face tight. “Let’s get you up. We’ve got to get moving.”

“Tell me!” commanded Byleth, panic making her instantly awake.

“I found signs of an army marching past our position. In the woods north of here. Hundreds, possibly thousands. They’ve gone around us,” said Zarad grimly.

Byleth swore an oath and raced to the map table, still lit by the lanterns. She peered around her but saw from the darkness outside that it must be evening. “Show me!”

“They cleared a path through the mountains to the north of us...around here,” said Zarad, thumping a finger on the parchment. “I nearly died falling off a cliff in this damn fog. There’s signs of ancient mines and quarries there. The old mine paths had turned into game trails, easing their route.”

“How long ago?”

“Not certain,” he said, his voice hard. “A day. Possibly more.”

Byleth felt something build within her, and had to control herself from hitting her old friend. She settled for the table instead. Two of the wooden legs snapped clean and the maps and lanterns tumbled to the ground.

“Byleth!” said an alarmed Trips.

“We march now,” she said, snapping the words out, moving to her gear.

“Kid, that’s not all,” said her stepmother, holding up her hands to placate her. “This fog...all of this crap weather, this was made by someone. It’s magical, not natural. I was finally able to sniff it out this afternoon. No real fog could last this long, or be this localized and unchanging.”

In the middle of hitching her sword belt, Byleth stared at her. “What does that mean? Lonato has...mages? Supporting him?”

“Evidently they were lying in wait for us. And we marched in...”

“And the trap sprung,” muttered Zarad, his hands on his knives.

Trips went on. “It also means we could be blinded by this all the way back to Garreg Mach. The spell is centered on this army somehow. The pegasus Knights refuse to fly. Their mounts get too skittish to take to the air when their vision is compromised. Probably instinct.”

“Can’t you…?” Byleth said helplessly, waving her arm in a vague pattern.

“If I knew where the mage causing this was, maybe,” said the frustrated healer. “But Garreg Mach might be on its own...even if we try to stumble back there, we’d never overtake an army that can see the road while we can’t.”

“There has to be something we can do,” growled Zarad. “We can look for this mage and kill him…”

“In the dark..? In the fog…?” said Trips sarcastically.

Byleth collapsed back onto her cot, her sword hilt digging painfully into her side. They had lost. Just out on the march to meet her foe in her first large battle, she had been outmaneuvered tactically with a simple mage trick and her own assumptions used against her. For the first time in its centuries long history, Garreg Mach would be attacked directly. With the Knights out on the field, the students would have to be pressed into combat. Along with all the villagers. Women. Children.

Her mind all too well conjured what would happen. Edelgard wouldn’t run. Neither would Dimitri, nor her father. Claude would fight until he decided it was hopeless, then try to flee, at least. One of her friends had sense enough for that. Thank the Goddess for small favors.

Wait. The Goddess. _Sothis,_ Byleth thought, a wild desperation seizing her. _Maybe because of our...relationship...I’ve never really prayed to you before. But I’m praying now. What I did before...I need to do again. For everyone._

She didn’t really know how to pray, so she closed her eyes. And wished.

Nothing happened. Zarad and Trips were still arguing with each other.

She leaned over and hugged herself, and wished again, pouring every ounce of emotion and soul she could into making that divine connection that had plagued her all of her life. That had stunted her emotions, made her childhood a miserable, unmemorable experience, that had blessed her with unaccountable strength and skill, along with a status and recognition she didn’t want. That had invaded her dreams and slithered into her mind when she least expected it. That made her doubt her own sanity.

Nothing still.

“Byleth?”

Trips’ concerned voice shocked her out of her thoughts. Byleth looked up to see both of her friends looking at her in worry.

She snarled in rage at those expressions. She couldn’t make them understand, she didn’t want to make them understand, and more importantly, she didn’t have the _time_ to make them understand. They had failed here. She needed to go back to make it right. “Sothis!” Byleth screamed out loud, tearing at her head, not caring who heard her. “Damn you! Wake up!”

“Byleth!”

“Zarad, she’s having a fit--”

She ignored the hands grabbing at her, holding her, as well as the alarmed voices. Byleth continued screaming in a frenzy, tearing at her face. The power of her screaming rose in depth and volume, higher and higher until she was sure she would die from it, the pressure in her head building, rising, squeezing, even as Zarad and Trips tumbled to the ground in pain--

\--and at its awful terminus, the world _shattered._ She felt it break, deep inside of her.

Byleth opened confused eyes to see herself falling but not falling. The tent and cot and camp were in the sky above her, along with everyone in them, but she was not. Instead she saw nothing around her except white, but even as she turned her head she saw the moment in time she had just left connected to something, a tendril of black in a sea of blinding nothingness.

She tumbled a bit, trying to look around her, but the thin black thread, spun like a spiderweb from the rapidly fading world above, was her only reference point. And Sothis was nowhere to be found, inside of her or out.

She fell without wind or sound, but felt herself only growing more confused and terrified by the oppressive whiteness, now split only by a single line of black. A panicked thought came to her. Was this Death? Had she accidently killed herself? That almost made some sick amount of sense. She checked her body, and noted with surprise she was fully dressed in her white armour, with the outlines of her flesh seemingly blurred and indistinct.

Rotating some more, she found she could float easily in a standing position. Focusing on her only sight, she experimented with her thoughts some more and discovered that she could move forward by an act of will. Simply by seeking to be closer to the dark, she soon moved towards it, and it quickly expanded, becoming more and more immense, finally crowding out the white, although there were small gaps of light shining here and there.

And in those dark pathways, she could see Time.

She could see where single moments seemed to expand outward like a burst of flame, overwhelming the nothingness with a riotous explosion of color and possibility that had no discernable limit. Then there were ones where almost every strand and path coalesced into a single point of possibility, with no other way forward, with thousands of connections meeting their end simultaneously. She looked upward and was horribly disoriented, as there was _everything_ up there, swirling within an infinite cloud of chaos, waiting to be formed by the slowly, stately advancing strands branching along like massive trees. Looking “below” her, the lines were fixed, with moments frozen like strands of frost on glass. Her vision frequently spun and wavered, as her mind rejected such unnatural shapes and colors, as lines and patterns seemed to overlay on top of each other in a fashion that didn’t make sense. Pausing helplessly to try to orient herself once more, she decided to close her eyes against the destructive, awesome input and focus on her other senses. She couldn’t hear anything, and sensations such taste and smell were alien to this realm, but if she could just feel...something...that might lead her to Sothis…

An odd sensation of familiarity ran through her, as if she had that experience of something happening again. Trips had a weird word she used for it, but Byleth couldn’t remember it right now. She focused on the familiar feeling, and a sense of direction and purpose was immediately grasped. Opening her eyes, she moved her ghost self to the odd buzzing tickle she felt within her being.

The sight that confronted her when she felt close to the sensation was staggering. Where she expected to find another strand, she found a pillar, a massive obelisk that blotted out everything else even as it stretched up and down into Forever. Thousands of the wispy black lines travelled around it and beside it, if not millions, weaving through the darkness in patterns that vanished when she tried to focus on them. Its strength and invisible foundation made it immune to much of the whiteness and kaleidoscope of colors around her. Despite the ominous size and awesome power of the column, she felt drawn by it, a strange attraction welling deep inside of her as she drifted closer to its impenetrable edge. Another wave of dizziness disrupted her inner harmony, as she felt as if she was shrinking, or the thing was growing even larger, if possible, skewing her limited perception even further. Everything behind herself merged together into an insignificant window, a window that was rapidly closing.

Cautiously, she reached out and brushed her ethereal fingers against the surface of the object--

\--and was driven insane.

She witnessed the immensity and eternity of Time in a single instant. The vastness and enormity of comprehending everything that had ever existed, now exists, and will exist crippled her, punishing her mind and soul into an uncomprehending submission. But a shred of herself, one close to her heart, managed to record the information she shought, and it desperately tried to help her find a path through the chaos…

...she saw herself, drifting over an azure and verdant orb in the stars, descending to a landmass that she recognized as Fodlan. Great labors were done, guiding and protecting the small creatures she found on the earth below, on this land that she loved so dearly…

...pain, pain beyond anything she had ever experienced, a torment that wounded her children too even as in her dying moments, she sought to tell them that…

...she was driven deep into the child’s chest, her horrified tears of pain staring up at her killer’s bearded face, and disgust and sorrow welled up inside of her soul to be used so, to be turned into nothing more than an instrument of Death. There would be consequences from this, a reckoning beyond the scope of mortal thought or limits, even as she felt herself eagerly drinking the child’s heartblood…

...Seiros was clutching her to her cheek, ignoring the deep bite in her hands as she hugged the sword blade to her breast, whispering words of love over and over even as her own men and family milled about her in confusion…

...ahh, such confusion, to see the sun and light again in so long, as Seiros ripped her from the chest of another soul she knew and loved intimately, with her daughter muttering words of regret and apology, saying that they must try again…

...and Byleth watched herself be born. She felt herself pulled into a world of pain, even as she was jolted by the connection between herself and her mother being severed, and the shock of the pain was too much, her small, rapid heartbeat ending before it had ever truly begun. Even as she felt herself die, she heard a weak voice, pleading to a strangely cold and flat Lady Rhea, her hands and robe bloody and wet from the labor, while the voice she knew as well as her own soul begged to know about its child.

“Stillborn. Dead,” said Rhea in a stranger’s voice.

“No…” A heartbroken whisper. The whisper of her birth mother, she knew instinctively. Byleth desperately tried to halt the vision, straining against the event with all the mysterious power within her, fighting with everything she possessed for just a glimpse of her real mother’s face.

“Another failure…” Despite herself, Rhea could not keep the despair and disgust from the words. She turned away from the carnage on the bed, as if in a daze.

“No!” said the weak voice, struggling to rise. The strain was too much and Byleth could only catch a glimpse of long green hair. The whisper was firm now. “I won’t let this happen! Rhea...use it. Use me.”

 _Mother!_ Byleth screamed inside, but she could do nothing as she saw Rhea slowly reach for a knife, a serene smile now on her face…

...and now she opened her unfocused eyes to see the blurry face of a shockingly young Trips, with the familiar shape of her father behind her. They were speaking, saying things her newborn ears couldn’t understand…

...the boy hit her, so she hit him back, in the precise spot where her father had shown her, feeling nothing as the cartilage crumpled under her fist…

...and Jeralt climbed into her loft, hearing her screaming, holding her tight as she shivered from the strange dreams and feelings she didn’t understand, just wanting for her father to make them stop...

...then she slipped her sword into the body of the bandit, twisting it by finely trained instinct, and watched briefly with detached interest as he seemed to deflate and go somewhere far away, leaving behind a lump of matter that slid easily off her blade…

...and she looked upon a Princess for the first time in her life, the snow white hair and smooth composed face drawing her in somehow, and she felt she had to say something to her…

The violent maelstrom of intense experience and emotion was too much. Byleth felt herself being ripped apart, her spirit being shredded by the unstoppable, unrelenting forces. She felt her soul being swallowed up, the input crushing her mind under its weight, even as she died and lived and killed and was born and it went on forever and ever, and it would go on for all eternity…

...and a small strong hand yanked her body violently back, away from the obelisk.

Sothis’ voice rang out in a shout. “You! You are an absolute mess, do you know that! How did you get inside here, of all places?”

Byleth couldn’t acknowledge the Goddess. She was too tired. She felt like she was fading, returning to a state that she had known before she was born, a place she recognized deep inside of her, and it was comfortable because she realized she was just going home…

“Oh, no you don’t, you idiot! Let’s see, how do I fix this? You are just making things harder on yourself, coming in here without me to guide you! When I try to give you space, you just leap off a cliff! When I try to show you the Truth, you just close your eyes and ignore me! You are such an utter child! Now, be quiet and stop all your talking while I try to put you back to where you wanted to go…”

*

“Where the hell are they? We should have found them by now.”

The woman blinked as she realized she was back in the command tent. Her body felt unnaturally heavy and clumsy, and for an instant she was confused as to why her brain was burning and her chest ached. She slid away from the table, a great shuddering breath overtaking her as she remembered what was missing. To breathe. She had forgotten how to breathe, and the strange gases and bags in her chest worked haphazardly, confused by their conflicting inputs. Her booted feet clumsily rose too late to catch her stumble, and her legs gave out, making her fall with a clatter.

Too loud voices were by her ears, sending reverberating concussions through the air to make noises at her and each other. She could just barely understand them through the well-cups on the sides of her head.

“What the hell--?”

“She’s pushed herself too hard…”

“Commander! Are you turning into a pumpkin?”

“Alois, fetch her healer--”

She opened her eyes to see a familiar face above her. She was on her cot. The face belonged to the kind blue haired woman she had known all of her life. What was her name? It was a custom here, she recalled. Names were weird things, but the one this woman was called was especially odd. It was something simple and short, but a nickname that the woman wore like a badge of honor.

“Trips,” gasped the woman, finally remembering. “What--?”

“You’ve pushed yourself way too hard, kid. I don’t how, but you actually have hurt yourself somehow, like you’re almost dead from exposure. Lay back and I’ll heal you again…”

“No,” she whispered urgently, desperately, rising to her elbows. The effort almost defeated her and the world spun, but she forced herself to continue. “Call the commanders in here. Now.”

“Kid…”

“Trips. That’s an order. Please. Call them in.”

Her stepmother’s eyes were full of something, and her lips drew tight. Byleth reached out a shaking hand to grab her stepmother’s own. An odd gesture, but one she knew would work, as she looked up into the pale face.

“Please. Trust me, mom.”

She had just managed to rise to a sitting position when Trips returned, with her fellow Knights assembled before her. She looked at the open tent flap, noting that it was still must be the morning she had talked with Shamir and Catherine and Alois. Maybe there was still time. _Time_ , she finally recalled, remembering her mission.

She looked at them, her voice only marginally more steady. “This won’t make sense, but I know Lonato’s plan now. He intends to attack Garreg Mach. So he’s used this fog to go around us.”

Catherine openly scoffed at her words, and Shamir quietly said, “Is this a guess, Commander?”

The woman shook her head. “No. Don’t ask how, but I’ve seen it. The fog is magical. But it only affects us. His army can see clearly through it. They’re probably past us already. We’ll have to try to beat him to get back there.”

Zarad and Trips were silent and thoughtful, but Alois looked doubtful, while Catherine looked openly rebellious. She looked back and forth at her fellow Knights. “I don’t believe this. She just wants to run back home to Daddy. She’s out of her depth. That’s it. I’m going to the Cardinal to report this one…”

“Catherine!” she tried to bark at the woman, but it was more of a cough. It did stop the Holy Knight from leaving the tent, however. “Come back here. Listen to me. I can convince you.”

The blonde woman stomped back to her, looming tall and angry above her. “Fine. Hit me with your best shot, ‘ _Commander,’”_ she said, turning the title into a thing of contempt.

She rose slowly from her cot, unable to stop swaying. But she managed to arrest Catherine’s blue eyes with what she said next. “Catherine. I’m sorry about Christophe. I’m sorry you got caught up in the Tragedy. I know you loved him deeply, that you wanted to marry him, and you still regret betraying him.”

The former Kingdom noble’s tan skin paled, then flushed deeply in anger. “How can you possibly know that?” she hissed with deep menace.

The other woman drew a deep shaking breath, ignoring the question. “And that’s why Lonato’s after you, Catherine. Just not specifically you. You took away the person he loved. So he’s going to take away the person you love...by trying to fulfill the mission Christophe wanted your help on. Don’t you see? He’ll fulfill his son’s dream, and get his revenge on you at the same time!”

Catherine shook her head in denial, a flexive motion. “You...how can you know this…?” she said again, this time in shock.

“Because you told me. You don’t remember it, but I do. Just like I remember what we found out almost a day into the future,” declared the Commander. She looked at the others, all frozen into silence. “We’re going to have to divide the army. Shamir, aside from us present, find me about four hundred of the meanest, most murderous Knights you know. Tell them to travel light, no plate armor, and to get plenty of torches from the quartermaster.”

If the Dagdan was perturbed by her behavior, she didn’t show it. “Yes, Commander,” Shamir said shortly, and she quickly turned and exited.

She went on with her commands. “Alois, do you know the captains in charge of the pegasus flights?”

“Why yes I do, Commander! One of them was actually a squire with me in the Knights of Seiros...Knight Bronwyn of House Galatea, I believe…” enthused the Knight-Captain.

“Bring her here, along with the other captain. We’ll have to get the Pegasi ready to move through the fog. Double saddles on each of them,” said the Commander in a tone of iron.

Alois rubbed the back of his head. “Ah, I must tell you, Knight-General, that I’m not good with such weighty matters…”

“Which is why I need Knight Bronwyn to help us understand what the mounts can tolerate. Please summon her, Alois. Thank you,” said the Commander. He agreed with another lighthearted pun, then left the tent. All that remained was her friends and Catherine.

Catherine was watching her suspiciously, but she ignored the look. “Catherine, you mentioned a Cardinal might be among us,” said the Knight-General.

The Holy Knight was still bewildered, but she nodded, falling back into the role of a soldier. “Yes. He was sent to keep an eye on you by Lady Rhea. As...was I,” she admitted without shame.

She could ignore that admission. No surprise there. “Can he conjure anima?” she asked shortly.

“Yes. All the cardinals can.”

“Then summon him here. He is now in command of the remaining forces here in the fog. His duty is to isolate the magicians causing it and to eliminate them. Alois will be the official, public commander of the remaining Knights, but he will obey the orders of the cardinal on this.” The Commander paused in thought. “After that...they may march their forces as best they see fit. But you, you’re coming with us, Catherine. We’re going to need Thunderbrand to face Lonato. And also for another reason. I’ll tell you shortly, once Knight Bronwyn is here.”

“Yes, Commander,” said Catherine, still shaken. She lingered by the tent flap, still gauging her for a moment, but eventually turned and left.

Only Zarad and Trips were still before her. Both of them were looking between her and themselves.

She eventually gave her orders after a long silence. “Zarad, do you know any hunters or rangers that can find a mage in a magical fog in the middle of a forest?”

The Almyran man gave an indifferent shrug.

The Commander smiled slowly at her old friend. “Can you?” she asked again.

“I would need a hint or two, but...possibly. If a mage is conjuring this weather, then he must be busy and distracted, no?” grinned her tall friend, excited by the challenge.

“Fine. You’re in charge of assassinating that mage, or capturing him alive if you think you can manage it safely. If not, kill him and bring the body back. We’re going to find out who these people are.”

“I will. And you...take care of yourself too, my friend.” He clapped Trips on the shoulder and with a gentle nod to his Commander, left the tent as well.

The Knight-General was left alone with her stepmother.

Trips’ knuckles were white around her stave. She opened her mouth several times, but appeared at a loss of what to say. Finally, she asked, “Kid...you saw Sothis again, didn’t you?”

A slow, weary nod. “I did. I have her power. Some of it. Not all,” whispered the Commander.

“Oh Goddess, kid…” whispered Trips as she knelt by the cot, dropping her staff. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you. We just wanted you to have the most normal life possible...” her stepmother was starting to cry.

This was too much to bear, and she raised her hands to try and comfort the older woman. “Mom, don’t. I think I’m ok...I really do. And it’s given me the chance to help save the monastery, and everyone there. I think I can hold up...and I swear, I’ll explain everything later.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” sniffed Trips, but she smiled at her.

“This time I mean it,” said her daughter, smiling back at her.

“I’ll believe it when I hear it,” said the healer, picking up her staff again. “Now sit back. You’re still hurt and exhausted, and I’m not sure I can fully heal you in time to be ready for a battle…”

“Wait,” inhaled the Commander sharply. She had waited to ask this for the last. ”Trips, promise me you won’t tell this next thing to anyone else. I need to ask you something, but I also need you to keep it a secret. Even from Dad and Zarad. I...I just don’t want them to worry about me. Please!”

The healer had the most grim and frightened expression on her face, but she slowly nodded. “Sure, kid. Whatever you say. I promise.”

The Knight bowed her head, the enormity of her horror and confusion finally starting to break through her exterior. When she finally looked up, her face was in such anguish, her stepmother was astonished.

“Trips...please tell me….what’s...what’s my name…?”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said no Divine Pulse Candy, Byleth! There WILL be a penalty! Like...forgetting who you even are. Or your memories. Or how to even breathe.
> 
> Ok. I think we'll finally start seeing some action here shortly? Like, pages and pages of it.
> 
> I'm trying to hammer Lonato and Christophe's motivations into some form of coherence. Also, gave Catherine a bit of a darker and more tragic twist with Christophe. It's very sub textual in the game, and here I'm just making it explicit from the horse's mouth


	23. A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I always say shopping is cheaper than a psychiatrist.” 
> 
> \--
> 
> Tammy Faye Bakker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arg! I know I promised action...but...the Fluff monster possessed me! It's not my fault!
> 
> Back! Back, vile Fluff Monster! Back to the Abyss from whence you came!

Ch 23

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Market

“Good morning, Marianne!” sang Hilda as she leaned over the top bunk to peer at her friend’s sleeping face. Watching Marianne sleep was simply the cutest thing in the world, but today was a free day, and Hilda intended to make the most of it.

“Hum...oh.” Marianne blinked awake, wiping her mouth hastily in embarrassment. “Good morning, Hilda,” she whispered.

Hilda leapt down from her bunk to busy herself by her jewelry stand, giving Marianne the time to refresh herself and dress behind a screen. She was so adorably modest, but Hilda didn’t mind, and was determined to provide Marianne every possible comfort in their new room, formerly only Hilda’s. She quickly washed and dressed herself.

“What are you planning for today, Marianne?” asked Hilda as she considered herself in her mirror, setting aside her accessories for the day and tying up her hair. “I was thinking about doing some shopping in town, myself…”

“Well...I was thinking of going to the Cathedral. There’s a choir festival today. I can’t sing very well, but I find the music to be so beautiful…”

That sounded dreadfully boring, actually, but Hilda smiled at her friend, now dressed as well, saying, “That sounds lovely! Maybe Lorenz or Ignatz would like to escort you after breakfast? I know they like singing too.”

“That...does sound like a good idea. Are you s-sure they wouldn’t mind? Someone...like me?” Marianne asked, picking at her fingernails.

Hilda hopped up from her stool at that, determined to put a stop to such self-depreciation and to keep Marianne from ruining her cute tiny nails. “I know they wouldn’t,” she said, grabbing Marianne’s hands. “I don’t know what’s made you so sad about yourself, but I don’t care, I’m pretty sure most other people don’t either. We just want our dear friend Marianne to be with us!”

“So...do you truly care about me, or are you just being nice?” Marianne said softly, looking away.

“Both, naturally!” beamed Hilda. “You know, I actually like us staying close together like this. I get to feel like a big sister for a change, and look after someone. So now it’s my job to make sure you never feel sad again!”

Marianne was still doubtful. “But Hilda...what if what’s making me sad is...a part of me?” she whispered.

Hilda composed herself as she realized Marianne was being all icky _serious_. This was really not her cup of tea, but she adopted the most profound mein she could muster. “If that’s how you feel sweetie...then I’ll accept it. All of it, both the bad and the good. Everything that makes you Marianne.”

“R-really?” Marianne nearly rocked backwards in shock.

“Yup, really!” nodded Hilda with a reflexive smile and a wag of her pink pigtails. “Listen, my big brother thinks that I’m lazy, irresponsible, and selfish, and he’s...sort of right. But he’s still my brother and he looks after me just the same! I’d know he’d do anything for me, and if I really, really, really had to, I’d do anything for him. I want you and me to feel the same way.”

Slowly, Marianne was wearing down under her magnificent charm. “But...what if I do something wrong again...or you’re disappointed in me…”

Gosh, she was being so difficult and stubborn, but that was part of her own charm, Hilda acknowledged. “Then we’d still be together at the end of the day. I’d be disappointed for, like, a second. Maybe two, if it was really bad. But then I’d help you, in any way that I could! Even then! ‘Cause that’s what a family does, right?” Hilda winked.

Marianne actually smiled at her words, and Hilda smiled back as she felt completely blessed. Absolutely nothing could make this day go wrong now!

*

Ferdinand was engrossed in his reading in the Knight’s training hall, so much that he failed to notice the presence behind him.

“Hey there, Ferdie!” said a high-pitched voice.

“Gah!” exclaimed Ferdinand in surprise, nearly dropping the book. “Sylvain! That was completely uncouth!”

“It was also completely hilarious,” grinned the redhead Blue Lion, casually leaning on the bookshelf. “Anything good in there?”

“Unfortunately not,” grimaced Ferdinand, sliding the directory back into place. “Annette’s father must be using an alias. I will have to narrow down my search to older Knights who took vows to the Central Church in the past four years. Tell me, were you familiar with the former Baron Dominic’s exact age?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, you’re still working on that? That was like two whole weeks ago!”

He blinked at Sylvain’s reaction. “Well, yes, but my word is my bond. I swore to not rest until I helped Annette find her father. I will continue to do so until she tells me it is no longer necessary.”

“Suuuurree. You’re only working hard on this out of a sense of duty. And if she told you to stop, that it wasn’t necessary to be worried about--which I distinctly remember her saying at one point--you’d totally listen to her and respect her opinion, right?”

“I would!” protested the Black Eagle. How dare this lout of Blue Lion insult his honor! 

“And it also helps your sense of duty that Annette is as cute as all get-out, right?” winked Sylvain.

Stiffly, Ferdinand replied, “That is irrelevant, and frankly, quite insulting to both my honor and hers. A noble lady has pleaded for my assistance. Thus, it is up to me to set an example…”

“...as the noble heir of House Aegir to blah blah blah,” Sylvain rolled his eyes. “Even I can finish your sentences now, Ferdinand. I’m just saying people would recognize you more as a real person if you expressed your actual desires and feelings instead of just spouting off titles and obligations.”

Now that was entirely uncalled for. “And maybe people would trust you more if you did not try to ingratiate yourself with every woman breathing and did not treat every topic in a glib and superficial manner,” responded Ferdinand in disgust. “What is wrong with you, Sylvain? Your classmate wants to find her father. I am doing my best to help her. And your opinion is to automatically assume the worst of both of us.”

He did not quite expect what happened next. The tall Blue Lion paled at his words, flushed, then paled again. He eventually leaned hard against the bookshelf, looking down. “You’re right. There’s something wrong with me,” he said quietly.

Witnessing Sylvain in such a state was a shock, but he still had doubts. “And this is the problem it leads to,” said Ferdinand with a regretful sigh. “I am sorry, but I do not know if you are being sincere with me or are setting me up for another prank.”

A bitter laugh. “My entire life has been a prank. Or more like a joke with no punchline.”

Hm. Perhaps there was more to Sylvain that appeared. Now intrigued, Ferdinand said, “I do not believe that to be the case. It is simply a matter of behavior and attitude. If you refuse to believe you can change, however, then we cannot fix the problem.”

“My problem can’t be fixed,” Sylvain said with a sad smile. “But look at you, wanting to ride to the rescue of even someone like me. Why are you like this, Ferdinand?”

He opened his mouth to say what he had been saying all his life, then snapped it shut with an audible click. Ferdinand paused for a long moment, assessing Sylvain as much as the other man was testing him with half-hooded eyes under his red bangs, then nodded sadly in realization. “I am this way...because I want to be someone who is helpful. Who can be reliable. Not just to Annette, or you, or nobles...or even the Empire. But to everyone. It gives me a sense of purpose.”

“What about yourself?” Sylvain was curious.

Ferdinand smiled. “But that feeds into my purpose as well. I must strive to succeed in all that I attempt, and take my failures as they come. Yet I will never give up. I will never yield. As long as one life is improved by my efforts...I think I would still be satisfied.”

Sylvain peered at him closely. “People as good as you shouldn’t exist,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“Well? How was that? Was that ‘real’ enough for you?” smirked Ferdinand, flipping his hair back.

“Um...yeah. I mean, I still think you’re a noble asshole but...you’re a really _noble_ noble asshole.” He laughed and held up his hands as Ferdinand stepped forward threateningly. “Sorry! I couldn’t resist!”

“I will overlook your sarcasm for now,” huffed Ferdinand. “But you mentioned a problem you were having?”

“Ah...well, why not?” the man shrugged. “Remember how you and Lorenz wanted lessons on hanging out earlier?

“I recall that it did not go well.”

“It’s not my fault those brooms are wedged so tight,” muttered Sylvain. Ferdinand was entirely confused, as the other noble hastened on to say, “But, uh, we were talking about me! So um, Ferdinand...I guess I need lessons on how to be sincere.”

Ferdinand considered the older youth, then smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “But you have already taken the first steps, Sylvain! Recognizing your faults, acknowledging them, and expressing a desire for change...all of these are signs of honest self-reflection,” he said at the startled Blue Lion.

“Wait, really? That’s it?”

“Not all of it, but you have indeed started on the path. Forgive me, my Lord Gautier, but it is not the rest of us who don’t believe you can change your ways.”

“Now that’s just bull...crap, Ferdinand,” Sylvain, vainly trying to be serious. “Everyone rags on me. Everyone makes fun of Sylvain, the irresponsible noble who will never find love or happiness because he’s so untrustworthy, or the wastrel who stays up late in taverns every night instead of studying or training!”

He had to sigh at this outburst from the Kingdom noble. “And what did I say to you earlier?”

“About what?” Sylvain blinked.

Ferdinand folded his arms and waited patiently. Sylvain had to think hard about it, his face twisted in consternation. One’s blind spots were extremely difficult to remove, Ferdinand acknowledged to himself. It had taken Edelgard humiliating him on multiple occasions to bow to her superior strength and skill.

Slowly, the redhead buried his face in his hands. “If _I_ refuse to believe I can change…”

“...you never will,” finished Ferdinand gently.

“Damn,” whispered Sylvain, downcast. “It was so easy to blame everything on my Crest, I guess that’s why I did it. And you can’t really change your Crest, can you?”

“But you can always change how you cope with the burden of having one,” said Ferdinand with a wave of his arm. “We did not choose this life, Sylvain, but it has found us just the same. And if we do not make the best of it, who will?”

“You’re right,” Sylvain nodded, standing straight, glancing down as his unbuttoned uniform jacket and rolled up sleeves. He began straightening and buttoning his outfit. “Ok. From here on out, I’m gonna try and change myself for the better. No more flings, no more late night parties. No more insincerity. I’m going to study magic and train hard and become a man people can trust!” 

“That’s the noble spirit, my Lord! I will hold you to your oath!” exclaimed Ferdinand, pleased to have witnessed such a profound transformation.

Sylvain’s brown eyes twinkled. “But before I get started, you need to answer my question, my Lord Aegir.”

“What is that?”

“You _do_ think Annette is cute, right?”

*

“I don’t see why you need to come with me,” sneered Felix at her face.

Ingrid stared levelly at her old friend. “Maybe I just want to make sure you don’t scar him for life. We’re only asking him to come train with us.”

“If anything I say to him scars him for life, then he has bigger issues that you need to worry about.”

She sighed wearily. “Let’s just go, Felix. Not everything needs to be a battle.”

“Excuse me,” said Dedue as he approached them at the dining hall entrance.

“What do you want, dog?” Felix snapped, his palm on his sword. She moved to stand by the swordsman. “What he said,” growled Ingrid, feeling her shoulders tense at the sight of Dedue.

“I wish to join you on your errand,” said Dimitri’s retainer. “I am also concerned about our fellow classmate, and wish to bring him a small meal from the dining hall.” He hefted a basket that looked comically small in his large hands.

Felix was unexpectedly quiet, and Ingrid belatedly realized he was deferring to her choice. She wanted as little to do with Dedue as possible, but at the same time, she didn’t want Ashe to go hungry either. “Fine,” she said curtly. “But we’ll talk with him. Not you.” The Duscarman nodded silently and fell into step with them as they walked to the dorms.

The instant Ingrid stepped out of the gardens on the walkway by the dormitories, she almost turned around, but Dorothea saw her first. “Oh, good morning to you!” she smiled as she approached the Blue Lions, but she only had eyes for Ingrid. “There you are, my dear Ingrid. Several of us were thinking of going shopping in the town markets today. Do you want to come? If not, I could bring you something. Remember how we talked about expanding your wardrobe? I think I can find something that compliments your figure, but for us to be absolutely certain that it fits, I’d recommend being there in person. There’s also the fact you need so much more green to add to your toolkit, as well! It really does bring out your beautiful eyes. Emeralds are probably out of our price range, plus they chip easily, but perhaps there may be some peridot earrings or necklaces…”

“Dorothea!” Ingrid finally yelled in protest, just to stop the tide of excited chatter. “I’m sorry, but I was intending to train today, after we check in on Ashe. I don’t think I’ll have time to go to the market.”

“Gotcha, sweetheart,” said the songstress easily, laying a familiar hand on her forearm. “I’ll select something nice and flowing for you, then. I memorized your measurements, just in case, and I’m sure we can make some adjustments if we need to. Remember to be done with training before dinner, because otherwise we won’t have time to bathe and dress up. You promised to come to my production of _The Flower Duet_ this evening at the Cathedral, so I’m holding you to it! Manuela and I have worked really hard in rehearsals, and we even got Bern to stitch some new costumes and Ignatz to paint a backdrop! It’s going to be sooo good! I can’t wait to see you there! Ciao!” With a wink and a swirl of brown locks, Dorothea slipped past them towards the gardens.

Ingrid’s face was beet red under her bangs. She turned and furiously glared at her companions. Dedue’s face was its usual stoic mask, but Felix was arching an eyebrow at her. She balled her hands into fists. “Not one word from either of you,” she hissed. “Not a single word.”

Dedue obligingly ignored her, but Felix was not intimidated in the slightest. “Measurements?” he asked her, deadpan.

“Shut up,” she muttered viciously, turning her back on him, hurrying down the stairs, and forcing her classmates to follow.

Just as they all reached the bottom of the stairs, Felix spun and drew his sword in single motion, too fast for either Ingrid or Dedue to follow. There was a ringing impact. The retainer only took a single long step backwards, with no other sign of alarm, but Ingrid nearly fell backwards to the ground in surprise. “Felix! What--?” she stammered.

A rustle from the bushes to their left soon revealed the tan and lithe form of Petra, still holding her bow. “By the Flame Spirit! I thought I had you rightly dead, Felix,” she sighed, sliding her bow back over her body.

“I sensed you,” shrugged the dark haired swordsman, resheathing his blade. At his feet was a broken arrow, but thankfully one without a bladed tip, Ingrid realized.

Petra strode up to Felix, staring up at him almost angrily. “You will tell me how I was sensed,” she said firmly. “I have been laying since dawn in waiting. There is not a way you could have seen or heard my ambush.”

“You’re right,” he said to her, with a small smile tugging his lips. “It must have been my battlefield intuition.”

She was quiet for a moment, gazing at him, her eyes constantly searching. “Felix,” said Petra, tilting her head up at him. “You recall our promise we have made together? To help us grow strong?”

Faint color was rising in Felix’s cheeks. “I...remember.”

The Brigid princess stepped close to him and laid her hand on his, where it rested on his sword pommel. “And your other promise? To remember speaking to me? With the words?”

A definite rosy cast to Felix’s face now. “...yes,” he bit off.

“Then do the speaking, Felix, and tell me. Help me grow stronger.”

Felix looked away from her, at the blue sky above. “...the ocean,” he muttered.

“What?”

“You’re like...the ocean,” said Felix through clenched teeth, unable to look at her.

Petra examined him for a moment longer, then sighed and regarded Dedue and Ingrid. “I do not have understanding,” she said softly.

Ingrid didn’t either, but Dedue was nodding slowly. “I believe that he means he detected you were nearby...with his nose,” he said shortly.

Ingrid gazed sharply at Felix in surprise, but Petra’s face lit up in excitement. “Ah! It makes scent! I was so concerned with the sight and the silence, I did not consider masking my own smells upon the wind! I must remember to remain downwind of Felix in future ambushings!” She grinned at Felix, who was staring at the ground. “Next time, Felix, you will be gotten! Bring Mercedes for the heals, for you will need many of them!” She turned and hurried past the trio up the stairs, back to her room.

Felix snapped a glare at both of his classmates, his hand on his sword, ready to draw. “Don’t.”

The Duscarman again said nothing, but Ingrid merely smiled in triumph, and bent to pick up the snapped arrow ends on the ground. “Scent?” she said with a broad grin at his expense.

“Whatever.” Felix stepped past her, and they continued on their way to Ashe’s room.

They had barely moved twenty paces when one of the dormitory doors on their right opened with a bang. “Ah! Dedue! There you are! W-wait! Don’t move! It’s ready! Hang on, let me get it!” a high pitched voice yelled at top volume.

Ingrid and Felix were both paralyzed by the noise, yelled at a frequency that threatened to deafen. Dedue closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

Bernadetta rushed from her room, her violet hair wildly askew while she clutched a bundle of something close to her chest. She barely glanced at Ingrid and Felix. “...oh...Hey! You two...um...people!” She looked back up at Dedue again, her eyes wide and imploring. “S-so, ready, big guy? I mean, are you ready to try it on? I worked really, really hard on this, you know…”

Dedue tried his best. “Perhaps later today, Bernadetta. For the moment, I have an errand to run…”

The short Black Eagle sagged and her head dropped low. “Oh…” she said in a small voice. “...I see. It’s over. I...I g-guess it was fun while it lasted…”

“Bernadetta…”

She looked up with tears in her eyes. “N-no, it’s ok, honest! I-I’ve been expecting this for a w-while now...there was no way someone so nice and strong and loyal and cuddly would be interested in pathetic little me…”

Dedue set down his basket on the grass, and knelt before Bernadetta. He was still eye level with her. “Bernie...please do not leap to assumptions. We have spoken about this.”

“T-then...you st-still like me?” she sniffed, a desperate hope in her face.

“...I do.”

“Great!” she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. She also quickly tied something around it, unfolding the cloth, Ingrid saw, and then just as rapidly stepped behind Dedue’s broad back to tie the rest of it. “Ok! It’s on! Let’s stand you up and look at you!”

The large man obligingly rose from the ground, looking away from his classmates. He was wearing...an apron. A very, very frilly apron, with a beautiful floral pattern embroidered on the front. Bernadetta ignored them all, humming and clicking her tongue as she flattened the garment to its full length, walking around Dedue as she checked the stitching and tested the fabric with a critical eye. Ingrid had to admit that it was extremely well done, but perhaps was...too much? Even her limited fashion sense was appalled.

“Wow...it looks perfect on you,” enthused Bernadetta, hopping up and down. Dedue was absently tracing the floral pattern with his fingers, bemused.

He finally looked up and Ingrid was surprised to see an expression she had never expected to see on his face. “These are...the flowers of my homeland…” he whispered.

Bernadetta stepped back and nodded happily. “Yep! Duscar sage, Duscar aloe, orange poppies, and lavender winecups...interwoven with little patterns of marjoram, rosemary, tarragon, and thyme! ‘Cause those were the herbs that brought us together in the first place!” She turned hesitant and uncertain again as Dedue didn’t answer, being engrossed in the embroidery in front of him. “D-do you like it? If...if not, we can burn it and forget about the whole thing…”

“No,” said Dedue sternly.

“Ah! I knew it! Too much! Way, way too much, too fast! I’m sorry! I’ve ruined your serious and stoic reputation! I’ll take it off! Into the furnace it goes!”

Dedue stopped her rush with a single hand and a smile. “You will not. I will treasure this. Always. It was made with much care and affection.”

The Black Eagle stopped her tirade to glance up at him. “Um...yeah, it was. Oh gosh! There it is! You’re smiling! That...was...a...smile!” Bernadetta did a happy little dance, spinning about and hugging herself, bumping into Ingrid and Felix at random. “He likes it! He really does! This is the best day of my life!” she sang to them, her eyes shining. Overcome with emotion, she sprinted back into her room, slamming the door behind her.

Dedue bent low to retrieve the basket, still wearing the white and blue apron with the field of flowers on the front. Ingrid thought she could see a definite deeper color to his cheeks.

The three Blue Lions regarded each other silently for a long moment, the wind rustling the grass and the bushes of the monastery grounds. In the distance, the waterfall of the river dock splashed. Somewhere, a dog was barking.

Ingrid and Felix shared a glance. “Cuddly,” they said simultaneously, nodding to each other that they both had heard correctly.

Dedue’s color deepened, but he straightened and looked at them for a long inscrutable moment. “I propose that we never speak of this morning again,” he finally rumbled.

Felix was nodding in agreement. “Never.”

Ingrid nodded as well. “Ever.”

*

“So this is what she came up with in a day? Impressive research.” Linhardt scanned the pages rapidly from his seat on her bed.

“I thought so myself. She is clearly a prodigy.”

“I believe she is more than that,” said Edelgard to Hubert, pacing within the confines of her dorm room. “I think we will need to try to bring her within our circle of influence. Even entice her to transfer from the Golden Deer.”

Linhardt glanced up from his reading. “Have you sensed...ah…?” he started, looking at Hubert.

The tall nobleman sneered down at him. “Of course I know of Lady Edelgard’s Crest empathy. Don’t be a fool, Linhardt.”

“Well, perhaps I didn’t want to get in trouble for making assumptions. So let me start again. I think Lysithea is more than just a minor Crest of Charon. Do you agree, Your Highness?”

“I do,” Edelgard said shortly, with a glance to Hubert. He understood at once.

“The matter we are more interested in right now is Lady Byleth,” he interjected smoothly. “Professor Hanneman has been immune to enticement on this matter, and obviously we cannot ask Lady Beatrix. It is clearly a Crest of some significance, simply based on the secrecy.”

Linhardt flipped through the last page. “I agree. You want my opinion?”

Edelgard halted her steps and faced Linhardt with a nod.

The narcoleptic mage carelessly tossed the pages to the floor. “Just ask her when she gets back, Edelgard, if it’s that important to you. You’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”

She was about to respond when there came a low knock at the door.

Before she could order Hubert to deal with the intruder, Linhardt said loudly, “Come on in. We’re still decent.” He looked blankly at the glares of death directed at him. “What?”

The door opened and Claude peeked his head into the room, his half-braid swaying. “Uh, wow. Um, I can come back later if you’re busy, Edelgard…”

“Come in, Claude. Hubert was just about to take Linhardt out on a run. A long one,” Edelgard announced.

“Wait? Exercise?! That wasn’t our deal, Edelgard!” shouted Linhardt in panic as he was forcibly removed from the room by Hubert.

Claude grinned as they passed and closed the door behind him, with Linhardt still protesting all the way down the hall. “Poor Linhardt. I wonder if he remembers this is still a military college.”

“I often wonder about many individuals here at the monastery. What may I do for you, Claude?”

The young man shuffled from foot to foot. “Ah, just here to drop something off. And...well, I’ve been thinking.”

“You seem no worse for wear from the experience. Surprising.”

He laughed appreciatively. “Ouch. Good one. But seeing you and Dimitri make something positive out of the mock battle inspired me. I think all of us have been playing our cards too close to our chest, when there’s obviously so much we can learn from each other. I mean, one day we’ll each be in charge of a nation in Fodlan, with hundreds of thousands of people depending on our decisions. Doesn’t that scare you a little bit?

“Somewhat,” Edelgard admitted after a short pause. “I worry if I am equal to the burdens and challenges that I know are forthcoming for the Empire. But I also use that as fuel for my resolve and a restorative for my faith in others. No leader stands alone, Claude. They are held up by the trusting hands of their subordinates.”

“Ah, yeah, and there’s that dreaded word. Trust. You seem to have it from your class. Dimitri basically grew up with most of his class. And here I am, the mystery noble who has trouble looking people in the eye and kind of obviously looks different from everyone.”

Edelgard considered his admission. Perhaps Claude was finally tiring of life on the fringes of noble society, yet she felt she had to clear up a misconception. “Claude. If I do not trust you, it has nothing to do with the color of your skin. It has everything to do with the fact I know nothing about you or your history. Therefore, I know nothing of your goals or intentions. But if you wish to drop the act…”

“Whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Edelgard. I’m not sure you would want me to drop my act, because to be perfectly honest, I’m not certain there’s a lot there beneath it. I’m wearing this mask just as much for my own benefit as for anyone else.”

“And there you go again. That tells me everything and nothing, Claude. Honesty and frankness is meaningless when devoid of context.”

“You’re absolutely right. Which is why I brought you this.” Claude held up a small cloth wrapped box, which rattled somewhat. “Sometimes...you can’t explain things with words, y’know? I hope this small gift clears things up.”

“Oh my,” smiled Edelgard, taking the proffered item. “A gift from Claude? The self-confessed schemer? I will of course have my mages check this out thoroughly before I open it.”

“Always a sensible precaution,” agreed Claude with a wink. “Call it a peace offering. One that hopefully leads to an alliance of mutual self-interest.”

Edelgard composed herself once more. “Now that sounds like a very foolish thing to hope for.”

“Is it?” Claude shrugged. “All I know is my Professor, a man who’s spent the Spirits-only-know how many decades fighting all over Fodlan, is worried, although he hides it very well. Whoever hired those bandits is still out there, waiting to make their move. And...I never did thank you or Dimitri for coming after me to help save me, did I? Sorry about that. I guess I was still too suspicious of other nobles, um, a few weeks ago. Anyway. This is me trying to be less suspicious of...everyone. Which...doesn’t sound very good at all, does it?”

“No, it does not,” Edelgard said, setting down the box on her writing desk. “But...perhaps your actions will speak louder than the stream of incessant babble that comes from your mouth.” She faced Claude fully, meeting his eyes directly for perhaps the first time. “Thank you for the gift, Claude. I promise to give it my consideration.”

He grinned and spread his arms wide in a mocking half-bow. “That’s all I can ask for. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find a nice tree under which to nap the day away.”

“You are really going to waste an entire day sleeping?” Edelgard exclaimed in disgust.

“Sounds nice, doesn’t it? I can’t wait! See you around, Princess.” With a lazy half-wave, Claude exited her room.

Edelgard calmed herself and waited patiently to make absolutely certain Claude was gone before turning to the box on her desk. Eyeing it like a dangerous snake, she raised a hand over it and quested quietly with her own magical senses on the item. It appeared innocuous enough, and she could detect nothing untoward about what lay inside. Some type of metal and stone object. Or objects. Her curiosity finally overcoming her caution, she untied the strings and laid the cloth wrapper aside.

It glittered with semi-precious gemstones on its top and the sides, in marvelous and intricate mosaic patterns that were unfamiliar to her, but not unattractive. The box was hinged, and she gently lifted the lid after a moment's hesitation.

Jade and quartz figurines shone inside, arranged in patterns she recognized from childhood. A chess set...but artistry was done in the style of Almyra. Where had Claude gotten something like this? A small note lay inside. Edelgard picked it up and read it. And reread it once more, then thoughtfully set it down.

She had come to Garreg Mach on a mission, and had prepared herself to be surrounded by enemies, aside from Hubert and Jeritza. That would have made things so much easier.

Instead, she was slowly becoming surrounded by...friends. Byleth. Dimitri. Claude.

Perhaps Claude was right. Perhaps a day of reflection was in order. She had much to think about. She glanced at the statuettes inside the box. She should have at least an hour before Hubert returned.

Moments later, she had the board set up on the floor, and was soon absorbed in the simple and childish delight of moving the figurines through their stately movements, while she thought on what she had just learned.

*

“...thank you for coming with me.” An ethereal whisper.

“No, it’s no trouble at all. I was planning to hear some of the music myself. Even the air inside Cathedral itself changes when the choir sings,” stammered Ignatz, rubbing a damp hand on his blonde head.

“It does, doesn’t it?” smiled Marianne wistfully as they walked through the Great Hall, towards the monastery bridge.

Ignatz tried his best to freeze that smile, and the girl wearing it, in his memory. Marianne moved with an almost otherworldly quality, at once awkward yet graceful. Like a doe taking simple, tentative steps through a grassy meadow…

There he went on about, daydreaming again. He could hear his father and older brother in his head, demanding him to pay attention. A noblewoman, a daughter of one of the Five Great Lords, was waiting for him to catch up, and he was standing around and gawking at her like an idiot.

He tried his best to speak with her as they walked across the wide bridge, but eventually their conversation dwindled into sighs and uncertain looks. Ignatz could well imagine all the hatred and disappointment he would receive from the rest of his classmates if anything happened to this poor, burdened noblewoman. All he had to do was keep her safe for the morning and the afternoon. He could do that, couldn’t he?

He wanted to bring up the subject of her Crest, to tell her that at least he and Lysithea and Claude didn’t care about it, but even his sparse conversational experience warned him that might possibly be a very bad idea. The only thing he had to do was be with her through the choir festival. He _could_ do that, although he wanted to get some painting or drawing done outside today...

“Oh, it’s D...Prince Dimitri,” Marianne whispered in surprise when they stepped out on the open air of the bridge.

Ignatz peered through his spectacles to see it was indeed Prince Dimitri standing on the monastery bridge to the Cathedral. Or more accurately, leaning hard on the stone ramparts. He almost appeared to be looking at the magnificent view of the mountains, but something in his stance suggested otherwise.

“It looks like he’s in pain,” he said, more to himself than to Marianne.

“You’re right,” she responded in a firm voice, the strongest one he had ever heard from her. He was even more surprised when she stepped past him, her stride straight and purposeful. He hurried to catch up.

The Faerghus Prince heard their approach, and attempted to mask his face of any distress, even though his blue eyes were still clouded. “Ah, Lady Marianne. Mr. Victor. Please do not mind me. I am simply getting...some fresh air,” said the tall man with a vain attempt at a smile.

Ignatz opened his mouth for some attempt at a social platitude, but his companion beat him to it. “Prince Dimitri, you look like you’re hurt. Are you hurt anywhere?” asked Marianne, worried.

Dimitri looked more pained by the solicitous attention than whatever was troubling him. “It’s nothing. I have headaches from time to time. They go away on their own. Please do not burden yourself with my troubles, my Lady.”

“But...I don’t want to see you in pain. May I try to heal you? At least I can ease your discomfort…”

The tall nobleman shook his head quickly, then winced. “No, do not trouble yourself, Lady Marianne. I’ve had numerous physicians examine me over the years. Even Professor Manuela and Lady Beatrix, here at the monastery. It is merely wasted effort and energy, better spent on others.”

She shook her head up at him. “I don’t think that’s true. And part of healing is wanting to be healed…”

“Please!” he raised his voice, then looked ashamed as she reflexively flinched away. “No, forgive me. I am simply being a bother, and as you can see, I am poor company to be with right now. I will retire to my room…”

“Let me...just let me try at least, Dimitri. I don’t want you to be alone, and in pain, all by yourself in your room. Like I was.”

Ignatz’s breath hitched in his throat at her words. He could see the dawning realization and clouded pain in Dimitri’s eyes, just as he could see the growing care and concern in hers. He had ceased to exist for both of them, but that didn’t matter. He felt simply privileged to stand here and witness something incredible happen before his eyes, something more beautiful than any landscape.

Marianne raised a shaking, glowing white hand to Dimitri’s forehead, which he slowly and obediently bent low to aid her to reach. Nothing happened for long moments, although Marianne’s hand was soon trembling with more than just nerves. A small drop of sweat ran down her forehead, onto her cheek. The white light intensified.

“Marianne…” whispered Ignatz in alarm.

She shook her head stubbornly, and raised her incandescent left hand to Dimitri’s head as well, cradling his cheek in it. The white light was soon shining brighter than the sun itself, bathing her and the Prince in a silver glow than banished all immediate shadows. Dimitri seemed not to notice; his eyes were closed, and his face soon smoothed into a mask of peace.

The light was hurting his eyes, but Ignatz was determined to see this until the end, his perception noting every detail. He would remember this, and if he had any talent whatsoever, he would make sure others knew of it too. Finally when he was forced to avert his face to avoid blindness, the silver light quickly dimmed.

When he could finally see, Marianne was breathing hard, but looking up tenderly at Dimitri, whose head was still bowed in her hands. Slowly, his eyes opened, and he reached up to grasp her wrists with his fingers.

“Do you feel better, Dimitri?” she whispered shyly.

Dimitri seemed to slowly regain the ability to form words. “...yes. I think I do.” They only had eyes for each other.

Ingatz unobtrusively edged away from the scene, walking past the couple on his way to the Cathedral. He had an idea for a new painting, and that was enough. No sense in lingering further, and making things socially awkward with his unmentionable presence. Marianne was now in much better hands than his own.

*

Manuela found herself too nervous before the start of the choir festival to concentrate well on her role, and stepped outside to the Cathedral gardens to concentrate. The ancient abbess who acted as precentor for the choir had scowled suspiciously at her, but begrudgingly allowed the Black Eagle Professor some privacy.

She had never noticed those looks before, but for the past month, Manuela had successfully managed to stay stone-cold sober. It had taken Father Seteth’s scathing glare of complete disgust in her as an individual to shake her from her complacent stupor of a life, as well as his hideous accusations that she had been sleeping with a student. Manuela had denied it again and again, and eventually she had been granted one final chance, after Seteth had spoken to Rhea, Hanneman, and Jeralt. But privately, Manuela wondered if they were right. The truth of the matter was, she _could not remember,_ with perfect acuity, whether she had really done anything of the sort.

The horror of that realization finally forced her into action. It was one thing to wallow in self-pity and self-indulgence, for a limited time; it was much more terrible to completely betray your own life for years, so much that you couldn’t even remember living it. She was still hopeless at cleaning, but the dear little Cyril had been quite helpful in helping her clear every last empty bottle from her room, as well as several half-full ones, in exchange for a bag of rock candy and a new wood axe. With several involuntary looks of longing, her snuff boxes and their contents went into the waste bins as well. As Cyril uncomplainingly hefted the last remains of her old habits away, Manuela had bit her lip as she looked at her clean floor, trying to mentally prepare herself for what she knew was coming.

The first week had been the hardest. In the sunlight, in classes and in training, she was still Manuela Casagranda, unstoppable and unvanquishable, the articulate and beautiful diva who had taken Enbarr by storm twenty years ago. During the night, however, she was a gibbering wreck, a pale shuddering thing that sweated and shivered on her mattress, her gasps filling the bedroom as the nightmares rocked her. After that, reminders of her disgusting past rocked her at the oddest moments, such as the piles of wretched, stinking laundry that she allowed to accumulate in the corners of her bedroom, or the secret stashes of drugs or flasks she found in her closet, in her office, and even under her desk in the Black Eagles classroom, that she had forgotten completely about. She couldn’t even let herself touch them. A quick word to Jeralt, Cyril, or Hanneman was necessary, but she was gratified that her colleagues handled themselves quickly and professionally in helping her remove the items, with only the barest pleasantries exchanged.

Dorothea, the sweet child, had noted her suffering in the most gentle and perceptive way. She kindly suggested to Manuela that she was thinking of performing an abridged version of _The Flower Duet_ during this Garland Moon, just to bring a bit of culture to Garreg Mach, and perhaps the Professor would consider singing the arias with her--?

Slowly, her rehearsals with Dorothea and the monastery choir brought her back. By filling her evenings with song instead of isolated terror and shame, Manuela felt her mind clawing itself back from the brink. Music was the core of her life, and the core of her soul. There was a beauty in song that transcended everything, rallying her spirit through the darkest shame or the blackest despair. Maybe that was why she felt drawn to the Cathedral Gardens now before a performance, the natural wildness and vibrancy reminding her of the most momentous event of her life. She had forgotten much, but she still remembered that evening as a child very clearly, when her parents had brought her on a pilgrimage to Garreg Mach. Hearing a voice outside the Cathedral, diamond-like in its perfection, singing a song of perfect love mixed with a terrible sadness, had inspired her to open her mouth and sing herself, if only to innocently comfort that sad soul in its lament. Her parents had been astonished to hear her perfect pitch...

As she was walking down the stone steps, lost in her memories, she heard a voice...humming. The exact same song she had heard so long ago.

Well, she had always expected this, to be frank. The mind was always the first to go. She had played it too fast and too loose with her own body for much too long. Here were the auditory hallucinations, soon to be followed by visual ones. The delusions and essential tremors would follow. Hopefully the monks and nuns would find a nice hospice for her to live out her remaining days, where she could slap at the imaginary bugs crawling on her skin.

Slowly, the chirping of birds and other sounds of the garden, along with the continuance of the humming, made her recognize that the voice was real. Plus, this voice was very different than the one she had heard nearly three decades before. It was...to be blunt, awful. Off pitch, off tempo. But the song was recognizable. Still unsure if she wasn’t losing her mind, Manuela stepped around the last bend of the rough hewn stone steps in the garden.

It was Lord Seteth’s strange young sister, Flayn. The girl was sitting by the edge of the Holy Pool, her shoes and stockings off, kicking her feet lazily in the water as she hummed the song. Surely it wasn’t Flayn she had heard so long ago--? That was just impossible. Still, how could the girl know a song Manuela had only heard once in her life, three decades in the past?

She had been about to open her mouth and alert the girl to her presence, but Flayn soon stopped humming and lifted her childish voice to the sun. “In time’s flow...see the glow...of flames ever burning bright…”

Oh, dear. Oh, _dear_. The child desperately needed vocal lessons. Well, she was a teacher, and a former diva, after all. Manuela found the key the child had been singing in and broke in on the second verse, as gently as she could. “On the swift...river’s drift...broken memories alight…”

“AH!” screamed the child as she tried to turn, falling into the water in surprise.

Oh Goddess no! Seteth would kill her if she let anything happen to his sister. Kill her? She would be lucky to only be killed. The man did have a wyvern for a mount, after all. He would cut off a slice of her to eat for himself, then feed the rest to his razor-mawed pet. She rushed forward, cursing herself for deciding to wear these shoes today, nearly falling over multiple times on the wet stones to reach the mass of green that bobbed on the water. Reaching a hand into the icy pool, she grabbed for something, clutching the girl’s robes, and heaved backwards with all of her might.

Soaking wet, Flayn’s weight had seemingly tripled, but Manuela fell backwards with the sodden girl on top of her, ruining her robes, but that didn’t matter. She quickly brushed through the endless green hair, trying to find Flayn’s face. “Flayn-?” she spluttered. “Speak to me--!”

Flayn’s body was shaking, probably in an asphyxic spasm. Cursing in several dialects after realizing she was looking on the wrong side, Manuela rolled her body over.

“Ah, ha ha ha ha ha!” laughed Flayn through her wet hair, in much more musical tones than she was managing earlier. “Oh, I am so sorry, Professor. You completely caught me off guard!”

Manuela rocked backwards, too relieved to care that her hair and robes were now a complete mess. “Oh, thank the Goddess, Flayn. I was so worried. Don’t do that to me ever again.”

Flayn was still clearing hair from her face. “Forgive me, but I could not resist. I’m sorry, but I was positive that I was all alone here in the Gardens. I certainly was not expecting to hear a voice as lovely as yours, singing along with me!”

“Well, my dear, I was _in loco parentis_ for you at the moment. If I let anything happen to you, Seteth was going to crucify me. Upside down.”

“Oh please! You don’t have to bring him and his overbearing nature up. I know you would have assisted me just by your kind heart,” smiled the short child in reassurance. She looked quite different with her hair wet and straight. Manuela wearily looked at her once more to assure herself that Flayn was truly breathing deeply and soundly, then stared at the sight before her. The tips of Flayn’s ears were poking through the wet locks. Very sharp, very pointed tips. She had never before seen ears like that.

“Professor--? What is the matter--?” asked the girl, before her green eyes turned wide and panicked. She clamped her small hands to the sides of her face. “Oh no! Please do not stare! Do not look at them! Please! I don’t want to leave Garreg Mach!” she shouted, trying to hide the features with her small hands.

Manuela was utterly bewildered. “Leave--? Why? I’m so sorry, Flayn, but I have just never seen--”

“No!” yelled Flayn as she quickly stood, arranging her wet hair quickly to cover her ears. She was quickly working herself into a panic, her gaze imploring as she shifted restlessly. “You didn’t see! Please Professor! You can’t know about them! My brother, he will force me to go into hiding again, and I will never see any of my friends or you ever again, for the rest of my life! I’ll never have any friends ever, never ever! Please! I’m begging you!”

Manuela felt a shock of recognition go through her at these new symptoms. It couldn’t be...but…

She slowly stood, not bothering to brush her robes clean as she tried to look the panicked girl in the eye, keeping her voice calm and steady, trying to look Flayn in the eyes. “Flayn. Listen to me. You won’t have to leave Garreg Mach if you don’t want to. Do you understand me? I can protect you. I can keep you safe.” 

“You don’t understand,” said Flayn brokenly, still covering up her deformed ears. She began backing away from Manuela. “Just please...never speak of this again. I’ll never bother you again, Professor. Just please, I beg you…don’t tell my b-brother. He can never know that you know. Please.” With a final sob, Flayn turned and ran away, her hands still clutching the sides of her face.

Manuela stood dripping by the Holy Pool, the icy water matting her robes to her skin forgotten. It was nothing to the icy clarity and resolve she felt overtaking her now. Her choir service was forgotten. Her troubles were forgotten. There was a child in danger, and she _was_ going to get to the bottom of this.

The Professor strode quickly away from the contemplative gardens, ignoring the trail of water she left behind her, or the discomfort of her wet shoes and robes. That bastard. That perfect, pious, smug, controlling, abusive _bastard_. How dare he condemn her for her habits, while he was obviously ruining his sister’s life because of some insignificant physical deformity? She recognized deep psychological trauma when she saw it. All that Flyan had said, about being forced into hiding against her will, and never having friends, with the pure raw panic at the possibility her brother might find out that someone else knew the secret, oh yes, Manuela recognized the signs, having seen them in her students before in years past. She had dealt with such abusers harshly and efficiently, as she was going to do the same now.

Her anima burned at her fingertips, practically begging for release in response to her anger. Seteth had better have his wyvern with him, once she found him. It was the only thing that would give him a prayer against her.

*

“Welp, here we all are! Ready to head down, gang?” Hilda said brightly to the gathering in the dining hall.

Mercedes smiled with a light-hearted giggle. “Ready! This will be such fun! It’s been so long since I’ve been shopping with a large group like this!”

Leonie hefted her shoulder-pack of pelts and skins she intended to sell in town. “Just one question. You said this was a girls’ outing. No guys allowed.”

“Well, yeah,” Hilda blinked.

“Then why is _he_ coming along?” said the older teen, glaring at Caspar where he was having an animated discussion with Annette.

Dorothea cleared her throat. “Uh, Leonie...well, we thought Caspar didn’t count. He and Lin are…” she made a motion with her fingers.

The village commoner looked uncomprehendingly at the songstress. “He and Linhardt are what? Annoying?”

Fortunately, Hilda was able to lean up and whisper into Leonie’s ear before the social faux pas got out of hand. Leonie instantly turned bright red and stood up straight, a scandalized expression on her face. Dorothea just hoped she wasn’t prejudiced, like many other backwater commoners she had known in Enbarr.

“Hey, are we ready to get this show on the road? It’s nearly noon and we’ll waste the entire day standing around!” said Caspar, coming up at that moment with Annette. Lenoie managed to rally herself and give Caspar a friendly smile. Dorothea and Hilda glanced at each other and both breathed a sigh of relief as they set off.

As they walked from the gate down the hillside to the town proper, each of them talked about which shop they would like to visit first. Dorothea suggested the jewelry store, and Hilda, Mercedes, and Annette enthusiastically agreed, while Leonie and Caspar rolled their eyes. Annette desperately wanted for them to visit a bakery, with only Mercedes and Leonie supporting her, as Dorothea, Hilda, and Caspar frowned on anything that would ruin their figures too much. Mercedes suggested a local tailor’s shop, and all agreed that there might be something of interest there for each of them. Caspar mentioned visiting the bookseller’s, to the astonishment of most of the group, but Dorothea and Hilda nodded sagely. Leonie pleaded for someone to visit the furrier with her so she wouldn’t get cheated on the price for her pelts, and Mercedes kindly agreed to help. They all agreed to meet at the tailor shop in one hour, noting that the Cathedral bells had just recently rang out the midday bellsong.

“We turn left here, Mercedes,” said Leonie, pointing to a side street. She waved at the rest. “See you soon, and keep an eye on your pursebelts, guys! There are thieves in every town, even Garreg Mach!” The two older girls walked off, with Mercedes effortlessly chatting up Leonie.

“Thieves? All right! I love breaking noses!” smiled Caspar in anticipation, cracking his knuckles.

Dorothea felt a lesson for the short boy was in order. “Caspar!” she barked at him with a glare. “Look at me!”

“Um, ok?”

“First rule of thieves, dear, is that they are very good...at causing you to become distracted,” she smiled, handing his own purse back to him with a flourish. He squawked in protest, while Hilda and Annette both backed away from the songstress a bit.

“You know what? I think I’ll head to the bookstore with Caspar! Do you know what you’re looking for?” asked Annette.

“Ah well, I was hoping you could help me...um, browse? For a friend,” said Caspar with a slight pause.

“Oh sure! What are they interested in?”

Caspar and Annette headed off in the general direction of the bookstore. Dorothea could only hope that her lesson had sunk in for both of them, because the two of them looked like very young and tempting targets as they walked through the crowded streets. Hilda immediately sensed her line of thought and spoke up. “Oh c’mon, Dorothea, they’ll be fine. Annette will keep Caspar out of trouble. Let’s head to the jewelry shop!”

Dorothea let Hilda take the lead, her acting skill allowing her to make the appropriate sounds of conversation while she scanned the crowd. Surely there would be someone watching the gate to the monastery for young and foolish noble students, ready to offer them any ‘assistance’ they might need in spending their parents’ coin. She veered Hilda slightly closer to the main row of inns of the town to get a closer look…

There. A cowled figure lounging in the shadows of an alley, seemingly interested in the dice game between two street urchins, but placed where they had a clear view of the avenue, as well as the monastery hill which Dorothea and company had just walked down. She laughed blithely in response to some flippant remark by Hilda, but she was careful to leave her right hand at her side, her thumb pressed between her middle and ring finger as she approached the alleyway.

She could tell the cloaked person was amused, but its right hand responded in a similar fashion. A light and smooth tenor voice issued a short order, and the beggar children snatched up their bones, heading down the dim alleyway without a word. The figure nodded once to Dorothea as she passed, and she could see a hint of light purple hair in the cowl, almost bordering on grey in the sunlight.

Dorothea smiled as she walked by, with Hilda missing the exchange entirely. She may no longer be a begging urchin herself or ‘The Mystical Songstress’ of Enbarr, but she could still prove her bona fides from the street when she had too. She would have to meet with that mysterious personage later--probably a member of the local thieves’ guild here--and establish some ground rules between them as a courtesy, but for today at least, she and her friends would be unmolested by the vast majority of Garreg Mach’s underlife. She didn’t know the specifics, but she knew much of it centered upon the local shantytown, a collection of poorly constructed hovels and lean-tos built in the shadowy hillside of the massive monastery walls. The name alone had erased any curiosity Dorothea had felt about the place. ‘The Abyss.’

“Helloo? Dorothea? Are you having a Goddess moment? Is Saint Seiros whispering into your ear?” Hilda finally demanded, impatient with her inattentiveness.

“Oh, forgive me, dear, I completely lost myself for a bit there after seeing someone I thought I knew. Could you be a sweet and repeat yourself?”

Hilda eyed her as they neared the jewelry shop. “You’d better tone down on that roving eye of yours, Dorothea. I don’t think Ingrid is a girl who would easily forgive that.”

The songstress tossed her brunette locks. “Trust me, Hilda, I’ll worry about crossing that bridge once we actually hold hands or something. Ingrid is so cute and serious but almost painfully dense. She still doesn’t know that I’m trying to seduce her.”

That brought up the noblewoman short. “Wait, really? I’d heard the Kingdom nobles were stuffy and stupid, but I didn’t know they were _that_ bad.”

“Believe me, it’s worse than you know. That’s why everything hinges on tonight for me…”

“Oh my. I was going to tell you we’d have to have a friendly competition for the green jewels, but I think I’ll let you have first pick. You sound like you’re going to need it.”

“Hilda, are you sure? I thought you were wanting to pick out something for your tall dark and handsome House Leader, and his vivid green eyes…”

“Well, the closer I get now…” said Hilda, unconsciously fingering her bracelets. “I’m not so sure Claude would like something I just bought. With money. That would just me seem like a spoiled little rich girl.”

Feeling the noblewoman deserved some credit for her limited self-awareness, Dorothea smiled and said, “Why not split the difference, Hildie? I’m sure the jeweler has some loose stones you can use to make something. Perhaps a new earring?”

The shorter girl loudly agreed with the suggestion, and the two cadets quickly entered the dim shop, closing the door behind them. In the far distance, faint horns were blaring, with distant sounds of screams of pain.

* 

“...and I’m sorry, little girl, but you see the position I’m in. Furs are out of season right now. A hundred weight gold piece is all that I can afford,” said the large bearded man with an oily smile on his thick lips.

Leonie growled in anger, ready to snap at the idiot, but Mercedes innocently spoke up in her mild voice. “Mr. Merchant, I believe you are being very unfair. I know for certain that some of these beaver skins can go for twice that as hats or gloves in Fhirdiad. Each. And you haven’t made a single mention of the quality of them either. They hardly have a mark on them! It takes a very skilled hunter to manage that.”

The man sniffed in disdain as he hefted a pelt on his counter in the dim shop. “It’s true that these are fine pieces. But how can I afford to pay for inventory which will rot away in my damp shop until the Ethereal Moon? I have to think of my starving family, unfortunately,” said the merchant as he sat back, resting hairy hands on a broad paunch of a stomach.

“Yes, I can see that,” drawled the huntress, trying to glare the man into compliance. He stared disinterestedly back, completely devoid of shame.

Mercedes shushed her again, and said, “It’s so nice to hear that you’re a devoted family man, Mr. Merchant. That means you understand the importance and deep impact of relationships.”

“I do,” agreed the man warily.

“Then you must understand how deeply disappointed two young officer cadets of Garreg Mach might be to hear that you cheated my young friend out of her hard work and skill. I’m sure Prince Dimitri and the sons and daughters of the Five Great Lords might frown upon such treatment of this promising young hunter. I’d hate for your honest reputation to be ruined over such a trivial matter. It might make your poor family even hungrier,” said the Blue Lion with an empathetic smile.

The man leapt to his feet, his expression woebegone. “Such is the way of the world these days,” he moaned dramatically, “that a man is bullied and threatened in his own shop by two nobleborn brats! Very well, I’ll raise the price to three hundred-weight gilders, but no more! My poor wife and children will have to eat nothing but table leavings from the monastery for the next month. I hope you are pleased with yourselves!”

“Quite pleased, Mr. Merchant! Goddess watch over you!” bowed Mercedes, as Leonie quickly swept the three proffered large gold coins into her pouch. They hustled out of the shop, with the man still loudly complaining at their backs.

“He still cheated me,” fumed Leonie when they were safely outside.

“A little,” agreed Mercedes with a pat on her shoulder. “But he’s also right that it’s not even midsummer yet. Three hundred was probably the best price we could get.”

“Thank you so much, Mercedes,” sighed Leonie. “I’ve been so focused on training and working out and hunting, that I’ve ignored the people side of things. I guess a mercenary needs to be good at even that…”

“I would think so,” nodded the blonde girl. “You want to be a good judge of character, or you might end up fighting and dying for a cause that you didn’t think was worthy. I think that would be a very sad fate to endure.”

“You’re right. I can’t ever imagine Captain Jeralt dying for no good reason. I’ll have to talk to…” Leonie stopped herself and tilted her head. “Do you hear that?”

Mercedes stopped walking and listened carefully. Horns far away, but slowly blaring louder. And faintly, distant voices, high in pitch, growing slowly in volume…

A war horn blasted directly above them, and the two cadets looked upwards in shock. A pegasus was spiraling down for a landing from the sky above, the animal descending rapidly as it tried to beat its wings in vain. Leonie gasped and moved herself and Mercedes away from the center of the street, out of the large animal’s path. “Oh, Goddess! They’re coming in too fast--!”

Mercedes gaped at the sight for a moment, then closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. A updraft of air blew around her, gathering in intensity--

\--and saving the two riders on the doomed pegasus. The noble animal’s wide white wings caught this last lift of air, stumbling to its knees as it landed hard on the cobbled street. Leonie’s heart broke as she saw the animal’s heaving flanks, watering eyes, and bloody mouth and nostrils. With a groaning sigh of relief, the equine head lowered to the ground, its lead rider slumped over the neck. With a final whimper and exhaling shudder, the pegasus died, its wings still outstretched.

An instantly recognizable figure was strapped in the rear saddle. Leonie rushed up to assist Knight Catherine in disengaging herself from the corpse as the Holy Knight cursed impressively, ripping the straps apart with her hands. “Lady Catherine? What’s going on?” asked the cadet.

With a final curse, the blonde Knight kicked herself free of the stirrups, a warhorn still dangling around her neck. She ignored the question as she looked at the cadets around her. “Leonie. Mercedes. Help me get her off. She’s going to need healing.”

The three women worked quickly, Leonie drawing a hunting knife to slice through the beltstraps and harnesses on the saddle. Lady Byleth’s dark head rolled as they lifted her bodily away from the front saddle, laying her down on the pegasus wing.

Mercedes bent low to check her pulse. “Is she wounded?”

“Not wounded, just exhausted. We nearly froze to death coming through that weather. Wake her up,” Catherine ordered.

“What’s happening?” asked Leonie again.

Catherine spat. “Lonato’s army went around us. He used some magic fog shit to hide from the Knights. They’re on the outskirts of the town at this very moment. That’s why we had to kill the pegasi getting here.” The woman unlimbered Thunderbrand from her back, ignoring the healing glow at her feet. “Byleth had the idea of using my Relic to guide some of us back through the fog. I’m just glad it worked.” She eyed Leonie. “Think you can warn everyone back up at the monastery? Everyone up there needs to arm themselves. I’m not sure any of the other mounts can make it farther than ours, and we were in the lead.”

Leonie untied her uniform sweater from her waist and let it drop. “On it,” she said fearlessly, leaning into a run through the streets, dodging past the now panicked crowds of peasants and townsfolk.

Byleth’s head jerked up as Mercedes finished her spell, then she was lifted to her feet easily by Catherine, her eyes taking in the scene around her as she panted for air. “Did we make it?”

“Just barely,” Catherine nodded. “I think I hear Lonato’s Knights coming up the avenue now. I sent Leonie ahead of us, but she’s on foot.”

“Then the three of us need to distract them,” said Byleth with a weary nod. She faced Mercedes. “Can you manage a fireball or something?”

Mercedes was frightened, but trying to hide it bravely. “A few. Maybe two, or three,” she said softly.

Byleth drew her own sword and glanced at them. They were probably going to die. But maybe save a lot of other lives in the bargain. She was fine with that. She thought so, at least. It might have been nice to see Edelgard or Dad one last time, just to tell them she was sorry. “Well,” she told the other women. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah the grey cloaked figure is...yeah.
> 
> So, the Abyss sort of kind of makes sense, but then falls apart when you consider "living underground." You know why nobody lives underground? Because it's impossible. You need food, you need wood, you need all sorts of things that only can exist above ground. Plus, living underground is cold and wet and miserable and needs constant maintenance. So I've altered the Abyss a tiny bit, by giving them a poor quarter in the shadow of the hillside of Garreg Mach. It's still unrealistic, but just a tiny bit less so. 
> 
> Also, this will not be Cindered Shadows canon. Yuri is also nonbinary, and I will do my best to present them in that way from here on out. 
> 
> I've had a lot of the Blue Lions fall for the Black Eagles. So I may as well return the favor with the Ashen Wolves and the Golden Deer. ; )


	24. The Ashen Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know, I'm buff as heck. What of it?"
> 
> \--
> 
> Hapi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was dreading this chapter, but you know what? I'm becoming charmed by the Ashen Wolves. They are super fun to write.

Ch 24

The Ashen Wolves

“Do...um...you have any books about Crests?” Annette asked the proprietor, unconsciously twirling her pigtails.

“Why yes, miss. The entire back bookshelf,” smiled the kindly old man over his spectacles. He motioned them to the right of his counter.

Caspar blinked as Annette led him through the musty and dark bookshop, suddenly feeling embarrassed and out of his element. They both mumbled apologies as they nearly stumbled over a tall blonde noblewoman in the narrow path between shelves, who was reading a book with a parasol hooked to her wrist. He hardly ever entered the library in Garreg Mach, and now there was this weird place. There were so many kinds of books. Like, hundreds. How was he going to find something for Linhardt in this mess? Caspar helplessly looked over the immense indicated bookshelf, his gloved fingers tracing dust off the covers. He could hardly even read these archaic titles.

Annette was helpfully scanning the spines, tilting her head to read them better. “Hmm...do you have any idea of what kind of book about Crests he hasn’t read, Caspar?”

“No,” admitted Casper, feeling worse than useless. “I just know that this is the subject Linhardt prefers more than anything. But I dunno...maybe he’s read most of these. I don’t want to get him something he’ll be bored with.”

Annette regarded the tall bookshelf. “Most of these titles are just Church-sanctioned books anyway. See the little red symbol of Seiros on each spine?” Caspar couldn’t, but he nodded anyway, and Annette nodded back. “That means only official Church scholars have written or curated these books. If I know anything about Linhardt, I’ll bet he’s more interested in ‘unofficial’ Crest scholarship than anything else.”

“Unofficial?” Caspar echoed, feeling stupid.

“Your friend means banned books,” said a haughty, cultured voice behind them. Annette and Caspar spun to see the tall noblewoman regarding them with amusement. Her blue and grey dress flashed as she dipped into an elegant curtsey. “Forgive me, but you children were speaking so loudly, I could not help but overhear.”

“Do I know you?” asked Caspar suspiciously.

“Probably not, if you are still as loud and unobservant as you were when we were playmates, Caspar,” the noblewoman sniffed as she tapped the ground with her parasol. “I am Constance von Nuvelle, last scion of the House of Nuvelle.”

“Yeah, nice try, lady,” scorned Caspar. “Even I know that House Nuvelle got wiped out by the Dagdans and Brigiders five years ago. Totally. No survivors.”

“O ho ho, but there was a survivor...me! True, I may have had to do some...questionable things...to survive, but my magical prowess saw me through!” the lady laughed after some pauses.

Annette stepped forward. “Wait a sec...your hair...you know, I think I’ve heard Mercie tell stories about you! You went by Connie when you were kids, right?”

“Mercie? You know dear Mercedes? From House Bartels?” gasped the woman.

“Yes! She’s here shopping with us in town! Omigosh! She’ll be sooo excited to see you!” clapped Annette excitedly. Suddenly they all heard raised voices from the front of the store.

“No, you can’t come in here!”

“Shut up, old man!”

“He’s probably one of them!”

“Wait! No! Please!”

Sounds of struggle erupted from the front of the shop. Hearing the tell-tale sounds of swords and grunts, Caspar darted past the blonde-blue haired imposter and ran back to the front of the shop. He got there just as some rough looking men in patchwork armor and rusty swords were about to kill the old shopkeeper, their swords raised for the final blows.

“Hey!” shouted Caspar, stepping forward with fists raised. “Back off, assholes! Pick on someone your own size!”

The men all turned as one towards him, each of them at least a head higher than him. Caspar gulped at first, but then started getting angry. Why was everybody in Fodlan bigger than him?

“It’s one of the noble brat students,” sneered the man in the lead.

“Kill him too! All who live by the Central Church’s tenants are heretics!” shouted a masked man with a torch, leading the group from the rear.

“Right!” shouted the lead swordsman, leaning in for a charge. Caspar shifted his stance to the balls of his feet, the excitement of a fight building through his veins.

The space between bookshelves was too narrow for a slash. Caspar grinned as he dipped low to the ground to duck the predictable body thrust from the long blade, and went for the leg sweep. The toe of his boot connected with the hinge of the knee, dropping the man to the ground and sending the sword flying. Before he could recover and retrieve his sword, a flat palm thrust into his dirty face shoved shards of cartilage from his nose into his sinuses. An extra twist from his palm on the man’s broken face sent him out of the fight. Caspar looked up and smiled. “Next!” he shouted brightly.

Two of the men glanced at each other, then one cautiously moved forward towards him, with the other circling around the shopkeeper’s counter to flank him, their swords up and ready.

Caspar almost groaned in disappointment. What were these guys, amateurs? The front one was obviously going to try to keep him busy, with the other one aiming to finish him off. He grabbed the fallen first man’s sword, then sprung up as if he intended to spar, waiting for the flanker to get into range.

As soon as the other man did, he drew back and threw the sword at the front man, shouting, “Catch!” The man and those behind him twisted and stumbled to avoid the wildly spinning edge, giving Caspar time to rush the flanker. The man’s beady eyes were stupidly following the thrown sword, and Caspar sprang up in the air, giving himself a boost from the edge of a bookshelf. His left leg kicked the man’s raised sword aside, and a right downward hook sent him spinning into unconsciousness. 

A boot scuff on the wood floor behind him sent him into a forward roll, saving his life from a sword thrust that went into the body of the man he just knocked out. Caspar dove forward and rolled again to put space between him and this latest attacker, twisting into a crouch to face his enemy. A mustached man with decent chain armor and a rapier stood before him, backing him into a corner. The man gave him a yellow toothed grin as he crouched low as well. “You have some talent, boy, but now the games are over.”

“Oh, I entirely agree,” rang out an imperious voice. A pair of fingers snapped.

Caspar blinked. So did the mustached swordsman. Where before he had been wearing armor and helm, woven honeysuckle now covered his body, and a crown of laurels rested atop his head. In place of his rapier, he now wielded...a sunflower. That soon sagged pitifully in his grip.

He didn’t miss his chance. Caspar rushed forward, feinted with his left, then jumped up for the right uppercut on the man’s jaw. His knuckles popped satisfyingly with the blow and the man almost flew backwards, a sweet fragrance marking his passage through the air.

Constance stepped forward from behind a bookcase, tapping her parasol to the floor. “Are you all right, little Caspar?”

That remark and the flowers finally stirred his memories. “Hey, I remember you now,” he grinned, pointing a swollen hand at her. “You were Crazy Magic Flower Girl!”

“Crazy?!” Constance’s voice rose alarmingly in umbrage.

“Hey, guys…” Annette’s voice caught their attention as she hurried to their side.

The black masked man in robes with the torch was advancing on the three of them, the last peasant soldier standing behind him. “Well now. We didn’t expect to see three of you little noble wretches shopping in town.” The mask swiveled to face Constance. “Especially you, bearer of the Crest of Noa. I thought we had wiped out your bloodline years ago.”

Constance snarled at that comment and tossed aside her parasol. She raised white glowing hands before her. “So you are the ones…” she whispered savagely.

A muffled chuckle. “No matter. You’ll burn like the rest of your family did.” The torch swirled in the air as the magician chanted. “ _Akanfax y’ardor araest!”_

Caspar and Annette screamed and clutched each other as their world erupted into flame.

*

“Hilda? Come here, darling, I need your expert opinion on something.”

Hilda turned away from the glittering stones spread on a black cloth before her, trying her best not to grumble out loud. Some of these cuts were very fine, but Dorothea was understandably anxious about picking something out for Ingrid. Hilda could barely comprehend how anyone could be so slow...but there was also the possibility Dorothea was just barking up the wrong tree.

Well, if the opera girl wanted to break her own heart, who was Hilda to stop her? She stepped near the taller girl to see what was laid out on the counter.

“So...as you can see, I’m trying to go for something aesthetically simple, but...it just has to have the right elegance too…” Dorothea explained.

Hilda made a spare sound of agreement, considering the pieces. Simple geometric shapes on light fine chains, but that suited Ingrid, who was as square as a crate. Perhaps...one of the bigger gemstones…

“What about this one?” she said, hefting an emerald with long and narrow rectangular shape.

“Ah.. that...I was hoping you wouldn’t pick that one…” sighed Dorothea.

“She’s on the straight and narrow, Dorothea,” said Hilda bluntly. “The sooner you acknowledge that, the better off you’ll both be.”

“She’s not on _all_ the straight and narrow,” muttered the songstress defensively, looking away. “Not all of it.”

“I’m just warning you…” said Hilda, clasping the chain of the necklace around her own neck. It was time to give the Black Eagle a reality check. She turned and grabbed Dorothea, effortlessly bringing the songstress to face her.

Hilda smiled sweetly with Dorothea in her grip, forcing the Black Eagle to look at her. “Hi, Dorothea, I’m Ingrid. I’m into lances and ponies, and definitely in that order! No matter how much you buy stuff for me or pretty me up or sing for me, I will never not be straight, because I can’t imagine any other alternative! But thank you for buying me this necklace! My future noble husband will appreciate your thoughtfulness! Maybe you can sing at our wedding?”

She was shocked to see Dorothea’s chin quiver and her composure break. “H-hilda…” the Black Eagle stammered.

The door to the jewelry shop burst open. A knot of soldiers entered the store, swords and axes and torches at the ready. “Look men! Gold and jewels! Take everything! In the name of Lord Lonato!” cried one in the rear. Men began screaming in delight as they smashed through the shop, filling their pockets at will. The jewel merchant fled out the door in a gibbering panic.

Hilda felt a flash of pure irritation at this interruption. She released Dorothea and stamped forward as a dirty man who fairly just reeked grabbed all of the jewels she had been looking at recently. “Hey! We were shopping here, you jerk!”

“Shut up, whore!” sneered the man dismissively. He backhanded her unexpectedly, ignoring her afterwards to grab more gemstones.

Hilda stumbled backward in surprise at the blow. Her hand went to her swelling lip, and she stared at her fingertips. Blood. She had been marked, by some nobody of a peasant! It was a good thing her brother had taught her how to deal with situations like this.

The man was turning to leave with her jewels, so she tapped him on the shoulder. He turned with a leer. “Excuse me,” said Hilda in her sweetest voice. “But I owe you this.” And then she punched the man in the mouth.

Well, she had intended to punch him in the mouth. Somehow her fist went further than she had wanted it to go, and now there was blood and teeth and ew, even boney jawey parts everywhere. Blood flew everywhere as the man attempted to scream through a ruin of an orifice, before he fell with a thud. The gurgling shrieks of the man on the floor attracted the notice of the rest of his companions, and Hilda glared at them beligeriantly, not bothering to wipe the blood off her face. If they wanted to be punched too, she was willing to accommodate them.

“She killed Brandon! With one punch!” one yelled.

“Get her!” shouted another.

A dirty man in a fur vest rushed forward at her from the side, thrusting a sword at her chest. Hilda jumped backwards out of range, and before he could recover, she leapt forward again to grab his sword wrist in a two fisted grip and rotated her arms. Several snapping and popping sounds came from inside the screaming man’s arm, and he dropped the sword very willingly after that.

“You bitch!” came a scream behind her.

Everyone was just so _rude_ while fighting. Hilda snarled and swung the arm she was holding, and the entire man attached to it, towards that voice. Screams and wails erupted from the pile of bodies that action caused.

“Thad! Use your crossbow, you ox!”

Hilda froze as she saw a large man--larger than Captain Jeralt, even--unlimber a loaded two handed crossbow from his back and level it at her, only ten paces away. Her brother had never taught her how to deal with this.

The man smiled at her as he aimed down the sight, but suddenly Hilda heard a musical voice behind her shout, “ _Uthoron strepto!_ ”

A pure crackling blast of lightning caught the big man, and several of his companions, and they quivered and jerked in involuntary muscle movements, their armor and weapons helping to channel the galvanic force as it twisted and popped around the interior of the store. Dorothea lowered her hands wearily after the expenditure of magical energy, and most of the strange men dropped, their bodies smoking and twitching. The air filled with the stench of ozone and cooked meat.

Only a few idiots were still willing to fight after that. They tried to get up, so Hilda kicked each of them in the head with her boot, not caring if she heard a snap. Her blood was up, and this shopping trip had been absolutely ruined by their behavior. The last one managed to rise up to his feet and tried to attack her with an axe, but she easily grabbed the haft, yanked it from his gawking grasp, and buried the business end in his neck.

“What the hell is going on?” shouted Hilda as she yanked the axe blade from the man’s jugular. She considered the bloody weapon in her hand. It was much smaller than she preferred, but serviceable. She looked back at the dying man, wondering how she felt about that. She firmly decided she didn’t feel a thing.

Dorothea was cautiously peeking past the broken doors of the shop. Screams and shouts seemed to echo forever into some long, mournful roar, and there were a multitude of people running in every direction in the streets. “It looks like an attack. Not bandits, but an army. There’s way too many of them, unless every bandit in Fodlan is here.”

Hilda bent low to look past Dorothea. Armored men attacked townspeople at will, killing at random, and her gorge rose in her throat at the sights, but she tried to focus. “They have uniforms...do you recognize those tabards?”

“Western Faerghus,” said Dorothea automatically. “House Gaspard, some with House Rowe.”

“Can we get back to Garreg Mach?” Hilda asked slowly. She could punch her way through almost anything, but there were so many of them…

Dorothea paused, then said, “I think I know where we can find shelter. There’s an inn up the street we walked past. I think the Abyss controls it. We might be safe there.”

*

A full company of Knights was charging up the hill to the monastery on horseback, intent on overtaking the lone runner, but Catherine’s shout rose above their noise. “Hey, Squireboys! Looking for Thunderstrike Cassandra of House Charon? She’s here to cut you down!”

It worked, thank the Goddess, thought Byleth from her hiding place. The Knights wheeled about, on the orders a grey haired old Knight in their midst. Lances lowered at the lone white figure wielding the spiked red sword in the street.

“Finally, you deceitful bitch!” yelled Lord Lonato on the largest horse in the company. “My son shall have justice!” Even from this distance, Byleth could see the man’s eyes were crazed, fanatical.

“Your son already had justice,” shouted Catherine with a sneer. “His only mistake was to fall in love with someone who _wasn’t_ a traitor to the Goddess.”

“ _YOU_ are the traitor, demoness!” screamed the old man. “ _You_ are the one who worships that Anti-Archbishop! We are the loyal children of the Goddess, and we will rid the world of your sinful presence!” He levelled his lance at the distant figure of Catherine.

“Knights of Gaspard! Charge!”

Catherine settled into an attack stance, Thunderbrand drawn above her head before a full charge of heavy cavalry, even as they closed within a hundred paces.

A low fireball from a nearby alleyway met the Knights’ charge, aimed at the horses’ feet.

Flames blossomed suddenly, and horses reared fell, shrieking with almost human screams, their large legs snapping and breaking and halting the charge in a cacophony of chaos. Men were thrown from their saddles, and unmounted horses ran wild, their flesh smoking, their pained cries pitiable.

Catherine rushed the confusion, Thunderbrand leading.

Byleth rushed forward as well, dragging an exhausted Mercedes behind her. A coughing Knight stumbled towards them and Byleth beheaded him with a two-handed swing of her sword. The cadet behind her gave a small shriek at the sight, and Byleth was forced to run back and grab her hand again. “Let’s go, Mercedes!” she screamed, hoping Catherine could hear her. She forced the cadet down the street, dodging past the screaming horses and Knights. She could only hope Catherine had read her intention and was following her.

They emerged from the billowing smoke and screams into too-bright daylight. The streets were a morass of chaos. Lonato’s army was attacking at random, and the villagers of Garreg Mach were slowly starting to respond, with homesteaders and shopkeepers defending their buildings with their lives. Several structures were already on fire, and the streets were filled with smoke.

Mercedes then saw something that saved all of their lives. “Knight Byleth? Is that...Hilda?” she asked, pointing a finger.

Byleth only caught a glance, but that was enough to see pink hair and a taller figure duck inside an inn across the street. She nodded to herself, although the structure just might burn around them. “That’s where we’ll go. Ready?”

The older cadet swallowed nervously. “Um, maybe. But...what about Knight Catherine?”

Byleth glanced behind her in the smoke filled street, even as horses and men screamed all around them. She couldn’t see anything definite, but something told her…

“Cast a fireball at their rear,” she said shortly, turning to guard Mercedes at the intersection, her sword up and ready.

“W-what? No! I might kill her…”

“Or you might save her, Mercedes,” snapped Byleth. Several Gaspard men had noticed her white armor and cloak, and were rushing their position, swords and lances leading. Byleth shifted her grip on her sword. “Do it _now!”_

She parried and swung at the weapons seeking her life, keeping the men at bay, giving the Blue Lion cadet the time she needed. There were four of them, and Byleth couldn’t keep them all away, having to trust her armor to take hits she could have otherwise avoided. She also couldn’t dodge or lunge too far from Mercedes, limiting her mobility. A sword punched in the chain in her side. A lance blade clipped her thigh, almost making her lose her footing. It seemed to take forever, and just when Byleth was sure she could no longer keep them back from herself or the student, Mercedes shouted a word.

The resulting storm of flames and smoke confused everyone for a long moment. Byleth found herself on the ground, but she saw a pair of unfamiliar boots nearby, and thrust her sword upwards in that general direction, feeling it connect.

A Gaspard man-at-arms staggered by with a whimper, dropping his sword, his entrails exposed on his stomach. Byleth coughed and stood as fast she could, cutting him down with another slash of her blade. Her ears rang, and she was breathing nothing but smoke. Gasping for clean air, she stumbled ahead towards where she thought the inn was located, desperately looking for Catherine and Mercedes.

A grey cloaked figure ran up to her, a bloody white sword in its hand. “This way, Knights of Seiros!” it called, before turning lightly on its heel.

Byleth staggered forward to follow, finally seeing the door to the inn wide open in the haze of the street. Hilda was rushing past her, axehead leading, with a large dark haired man wearing gloves by her side, and Dorothea was casting spells behind her at the entrance, covering them. Byleth croaked out to her, “Mercedes...Catherine…”

“We’ve got them, Bylie! Inside!” the songstress yelled, casting another lighting bolt. Men screamed and cursed.

She limped into the interior of the inn, content to simply obey commands for the moment. Byleth blinked in confusion once inside, lingering by the doorway. A multitude of pale faces on huddled shapes looked at her in the dark common room, and she stared stupidly at them before she allowed herself to be pulled by the elbow down into a basement, her feet and ankles twisting down the black steps. She turned to see the grey cloaked figure next to her, but her eyes hardly registered anything more before she was shoved into a dim candle lit room with a red haired woman in spare blue and grey clothing. She could barely avoid falling to her hands and knees on the dirt floor of the root cellar, her lungs burning and her head aching.

“Yuri-bird,” said the woman angrily. “That’s a Knight.”

“I am aware of that, Hapi,” said the figure in a refined voice. Byleth could do little more than cough for breath, leaning on her sword.

The dim room brightened as Catherine was muscled into the room with her by the large man, along with Thunderbrand. Her blonde hair was wet with blood and her armor was in red shreds, and she was heavily panting for air as well.

“Two Knights,” said the woman called Hapi bitterly. “We’re in the Knight-saving business now?”

“Maybe,” said the figure. “I need to go upstairs for negotiations. Keep them safe here.” The grey cloak flickered through the door as it slammed shut.

“Wait,” gasped Byleth, trying to stand erect to address the woman. “We need to fight…”

“No,” said the muscular redhead, waving a hand that glowed...blackness. “You need to sleep.”

Catherine hit the ground a moment later, already snoring, Thunderbrand dimming as it fell from her grasp. Byleth felt her eyelids droop and an insidious fog enter her mind, but she tried to growl it away. “No…”

“Huh. You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?” grunted Hapi. She raised another black hand.

Byleth tried to open her mental channel to Sothis, but the fog was claiming everything now. She was falling, but somehow that didn’t matter. All she had to do was dream. Dream...

*

Leonie had never run so hard in her life. Her orange hair was matted with sweat and her shirt and shorts were soaked by the time she made it up the hill, convinced at any moment a sword or arrow was going to enter her back.

She pushed aside milling shoppers angrily at the small market at the monastery gates, ignoring the verbose protests behind her. The Knight of Seiros in the role of the Gatekeeper smiled broadly as she approached. “Greetings, cadet! Fine afternoon, isn’t it?”

It seemed to take forever for her to regain her wind, but she shouted at him, “We’re under attack, you fool! Sound the alarm! Close the Saint-fucking gates!”

The man gaped at her in surprise, and Leonie lost all patience. She socked him in the nose, and before he could stagger backwards, she tore the white horn from his neck. She rose it to her lips, and blew with all of her might.

The note rang clear and proud, and finally the milling crowd at the monastery entrance stirred to action, as well as noting the smoke on the wind. She blew as long as she could, and even the man she just punched leapt past her, calling for the gates to be barred and shut and portcullis dropped. Voices raised into shouts and commands.

Dark spots swam before her eyes and Leonie sagged against the wall, panting. Her head drooped briefly, wondering if she was cut out for this, and ready for a real war, real fighting.

“Leonie? What the hell’s going on?”

She looked up to see Captain Jeralt, the god of her childhood, but his bearded and scarred face calmed her. He would know what to do. “...Captain...Byleth...here...warned us...about Lonato...attacking,” she gasped out to her Professor.

The Captain nodded in instant comprehension, taking the horn from her. “You did good, kid. Warn the students to arm themselves and meet at the gate. All of them. And get your bow and quiver, soldier.”

Leonie glowed with pride as she nodded to her Captain, and he smiled back even as he shoved her to obey his orders. She drew a deep breath to banish her fear and leaned into a run again, grinning as she heard her Professor blow the warhorn in a distinct pattern behind her.

*

“This is ridiculous,” panted Linhardt, his feet dragging as he rounded the bend of the Academy classrooms, sweat running down his pale face. “Are you...even...paying attention?”

Hubert looked up from his bench where he was reading a book. “Linhardt. I’m not tired yet.”

“Too bad...because I am…”

Horns rose up in the distance. Edelgard’s retainer swiftly stood, his expression intent as he tilted up an ear to listen. “Interesting…”

Linhardt was about to ask him what was interesting, when Hubert quickly muttered a phrase and vanished in a swirl of violet light and pop of displaced air.

Despite his exhaustion, Linhardt stared in surprise at the spot Hubert vacated. Surprise, and more than a little jealousy. He didn’t know Hubert could do that.

*

Dimitri felt at peace, free of pain, free of torment, for one brief glorious moment.

Yet even as he gazed into Lady Marianne’s dark eyes on the monastery bridge, his hands gripping hers awkwardly, still unable to let go, he knew this would not last. He cared for her, he could no longer deny it. And she cared for him. That fact was unthinkable. That someone would waste their life trying to ease his depthless suffering was too terrible for his soul to bear. Already he could feel the whispers of the dead starting again, despite her extraordinary effort, and again he smelled nothing but smoke, heard the horns of genocidal war…

Marianne twisted about in his arms. “Prince Dimitri? Do you...hear that?”

He blinked to realize that the whispers were voices on the wind, and the scent of smoke and horn calls were very real. He stepped forward past her, listening. The distant horn was now sounding in a specific pattern, a near-universal call for assistance.

“Lady Marianne, you must seek shelter,” he said urgently, turning to her.

“...no,” she whispered, looking down.

He gripped her by the elbows, his voice unconsciously turning harsh. “We have no time to debate! I cannot risk…”

To his surprise, she broke free of his grip with little effort. “I’m still a student of the Academy. An officer cadet,” she said more firmly, challenging him. “You want to help our friends. So do I. And...you can’t stop me!” she said, tilting up her chin at him.

He smiled proudly at her, even though this was the most inappropriate time to do so. “Very well. Then please stay close to me. We must arm ourselves!”

*

It took longer than he wanted, but Claude finally found the perfect tree on the monastery grounds to relax beneath. The moss on the rough bark almost felt like a pillow as he leaned his head back, enjoying the breeze and the deep loamy scent of nature filling his being around him. The people of Fodlan could build all the stone and glass houses with their tall terrible spires and vast empty spaces of uselessness that they wanted, but the true cathedrals were out here, in the midst and bounty of the natural world that could nourish a man without thought or judgement. This is where real universal truths and laws were found, not in incense or candles or repetitive ritual. It was just the right environment to contemplate his plans.

Edelgard clearly wanted to shake things up with Dimitri, and somehow she had done so with a simple request for tea. Claude definitely did not want to be the odd man out between the King of Faerghus and the Empress of Adrestia if they were going to giggle over crumpets together like brother and sister. Although that odd relationship explained much of Dimitri’s somewhat protective attitude for Edelgard. Without Hilda witnessing them fight and telling him about it, things might have gone much differently.

He had already raised the stakes with Captain Teach, and though she didn’t know it, his daughter. Now was the perfect time to do so with Edelgard. Nothing could be more innocent than an invitation to play chess, especially with a noble Alliance personality that might be willing to offer a useful outsider’s opinion of Fodlan. Although he hadn’t been joking to the Princess about mutual self-aid. He had survived this long, and as long as there was a chance, he would never give up on his dream. Yet if never told anyone about it, that’s all that it would remain, another whimsical, boyish, noble delusion.

Just as he was about to drift off, the horns intruded on his consciousness.

*

Seteth sat at his desk, and tried his best to hurry through all of his paperwork that the Church demanded of him. Flayn had wanted to go to the choir festival this afternoon, and we wanted to join her as soon as possible, but it was looking as if he might be late. He sighed as he could vividly see how disappointed she would be in him, but it couldn’t be helped. Perhaps he could take her fishing this evening...

The door of his study slammed open. He frowned as he looked up at Professor Manuela, who was looking very disheveled and out of sorts. The woman was probably having a relapse. He frowned and made to stand.

Manuela thrust a hand out at him, and a conjured wind thrust him back, knocking over his chair, and pinning him against the stained glass window behind him, which cracked but did not break. The magical attack caught him at complete surprise, and he growled, “Manuela! Have you gone mad, woman?”

The Black Eagle Professor made a slight gesture with her other hand, and the door to his study closed shut with a bang. She glowered at him for a moment before saying, “Seteth. Why is Flayn afraid of you? Is it because of her disfigurement?”

“What...are…you...talking about?” he choked. He had underestimated the Professor. Even with his heritage, he could not break free of her anima as he writhed against the window.

“Her ears, Seteth,” said the woman, enunciating every vowel and syllable. “She thinks she has to go into hiding just because I saw them. I don’t know why you’ve made that into such an issue, but she doesn’t have to hide it, you abusive bastard. I’m here to protect her. I don’t care if it costs me my tenure, my reputation, or even my life. She’s a normal girl, and she deserves to have friends!”

His anger turned into shock. “And how...did you...see them?” he grunted out.

“That is, I...I heard her singing...listen, it doesn’t matter! She got wet from falling in the Holy Pool and I saw them, but now the child is terrified of me! She’s terrified of you! She thinks she’ll have to leave Garreg Mach Monastery and never return. Is that true?”

“Have you told anyone else?” Seteth said intently. The pressure against him lessened as the Professor lost her anger and was becoming fatigued.

Manuela sniffed. “No, of course not! I’m willing to give you a fair hearing, before I blast your smoking corpse out a window for dominating your poor sister’s life,” growled the Professor, a fresh surge of anger pinning him to the lead and glass once more.

“There is a very good reason for this secret, Professor,” he said as carefully and as calmly as he could. Manuela’s righteous anger in her perceived defense of Flayn did her credit, but it was severely misplaced. “May I prove it to you?”

Manuela’s glare burned him for a moment longer, but then she lowered her arms, and Seteth finally felt his feet touch the floor once more.

Seteth took a moment to adjust his robes and cloak, moving slowly and deliberately. “I will forgive this assault on my person, Professor, since it was done out of care for the person I love most in this world. But allow me to show you a secret known only to a trusted few. Before you leave my office, I will have your oath that you will treasure this knowledge with your life.”

She shook her dirty blonde hair defiantly at him. “I can’t make that promise until you show me your ‘proof.’”

“Then look closely Professor,” said the High Abbot, reaching up to his own hair to brush back the green locks. Revealing another sharply pointed ear, similar to what Manuela had seen on Flayn.

The Professor was fascinated. “Astonishing,” she said, moving close to see better, her medical curiosity overcoming her anger. She almost reached out to touch it, but remembered herself in time. She still appeared angry, but had at least cooled enough to hear out his words. Her eyes flickered with amusement. “I suppose at least that settles the question of whether or not the two of you really are related.”

“I have never hid that fact,” protested Seteth, letting his hair fall.

“Oh come now, you do look a little bit older than her, Seteth, and the hair color is not quite exact. Take it from someone who knows…” Manuela trailed off, studying his features further.

Whatever she had been about to say was forgotten, as the blare of horns and raised voices suddenly intruded upon their senses. The voices eventually turned into multiple screams and the run of stamping feet, through the halls and up and down stairs. The Abbot and Professor opened the door to his office to see Knights and priests racing about, voices raised in panic and contradictory orders being issued.

Seteth grabbed one at random. “Father Anton! What is going on?!”

“My Lord, an attack! Lonato’s army is at the gates! Garreg Mach Town burns!” the elderly priest wheezed, his fear overtaking him. “Lady Rhea has gone to the balcony to assess the damage! Captain Jeralt is organizing the defense at the gate!”

“Oh, Goddess, the students!” cried Manuela, a hand to her mouth.

“Anton, tell all my orders! Any monk or priest able to fight or cast anima is to arm themselves and make for the gate at once! Let the sisters guard all the servants and staff and children in the Cathedral, and try to keep them calm. Manuela…” Seteth began as he turned to her.

“I’m getting my students, Seteth. Out of my way,” she shouted, pushing past him, white robes flapping as she ran.

Seteth gritted his teeth but did not waste time to argue. Nodding once more to Anton for confirmation of his orders, he sprinted upstairs to the monastery’s third floor, colliding off corners and stone walls in his haste. He shouldered his way past the doors to the open air balcony, then stopped short.

Rhea was standing at the western point of the balcony, the one that offered the most clear view of the sprawling town below. Smoke was rising in many parts already, but that was not what shocked Seteth. Instead, Rhea was leaning hard against the high wall, her face buried in her hands, ignoring the signs of battle below her.

“Rhea! We are under attack! Lonato has somehow eluded the Knights. We must rally the remaining Knights here and the students to respond! With your presence we still might beat them back!” he shouted. Slowly, Rhea lifted her face to look at him, and Seteth felt his heart wrench at the purest expression of loss and despair on his sister’s face.

“I have failed, Seteth,” Rhea moaned, her hands clutching the stone. “Byleth is just another failure. Mother is gone, and will never return…” she whispered, looking lost.

Seteth’s shock lingered a moment longer, before he stepped forward and gripped Rhea by the arm. She did not even react. “Rhea. You must get a hold of yourself. Neither Mother nor Byleth are here, but there are tens of thousands of others souls that are, and look to us for leadership! We are not beaten yet, but we must act!”

Rhea did not seem to hear him, speaking only to herself. “I don’t understand...we had the sign...how could our faith not be rewarded? How could it not...”

The answer came with the nearby beat of heavy white wings that surprised them both. Seteth jerked Rhea backwards from the stone wall, saving the Archbishop’s green head from being cracked with an iron shod hoof. A pegasus with two riders landed on the balcony, the winded animal’s breath grunting in a harsh wheeze as it limped into a landing that was more of a skid, barely avoiding the mediation pools. The lead rider quickly and efficiently unstrapped itself and leapt down lightly to her feet, her bow already being unlimbered from her back.

“Shamir,” said Seteth dumbly. “What…”

The violet haired mercenary ignored him. “Lady Rhea, Knight-General Byleth sent us here as soon as we realized we’d been deceived. She used her...intuition...to guess Lonato’s movements.” Both Rhea and Seteth looked displeased with the incomplete explanation, but the Knight continued with her report. “Lonato had a mage or mages with him, obscuring the forests around the Magdred Way with a dense fog that delayed us for several days. We hurried to return on pegasus back, but we could only bring a fourth of the Knights, and most of them not in their full gear. The good news is we saw the gates to the monastery are closed and being manned; Lonato is unlikely to breach them in time. The bad is that his troops are sacking the town, and if we don’t put out those fires, it’ll all go up.”

Seteth regained the tatters of his composure at the battlefield report, and was gratified to see Rhea’s eyes lose some of their mad despair. “Byleth is here?” the Archbishop asked, almost pleading.

A nod. “She rode with Catherine. The only way we could see our way back through the fog was with Thunderbrand. They landed in the town, but most of the pegasi are half-dead. It might not have been by choice.”

The second rider finally stumbled away from the trembling pegasus, yanking tangled grey robes free. Lady Beatrix stumped forward after the long ride, her face grim and afraid, flexing her fingers on her staff. “We’ll have to sortie for them if they’re going to have a chance,” she said curtly. “Otherwise the whole town will burn around them, even if they managed to find shelter…”

Seteth looked up to the skies. Now he saw the flights of pegasi, in white, grey, and black, each with a pair of Knights of Seiros on their backs. Distant specks were landing in the town proper, but many were reaching the interior of the monastery walls, as well. With four hundred Knights, and the monks and students supporting them, they might have an opportunity to turn the surprise attack on itself.

“I...I can put out the fires,” said Rhea slowly, looking back to the burning town. “But it will reduce visibility, and I will not be able to intercede otherwise.”

“Rhea…?” Seteth asked warningly.

“A spell,” she reassured him. “I will remain up here. Quickly, go to your duties, and may the Goddess...and your own skills...protect you.”

“Jeralt is in command at the gate,” Seteth informed the Knights rapidly. “The monks and students will be supporting him. If we act quickly, we will turn Lonato’s reckless attack against him.”

“On it,” said Shamir, turning to rush to the stairs. Beatrix hesitated for a moment at the doorway, sensing something odd in the air, but soon followed.

Seteth moved after them, with a final glance at Rhea, but she was ignoring him, her hands clasped in prayer. He was left helpless to simply trust her, as always, but he feared what that glimpse of mad despair from her portended for the future. However, battle awaited him now. As he turned to run back down to the ground floor, Seteth vowed to himself Lonato would not live out the day, not if he still had any power still left in his bones.

*

Rhea stood on the balcony, feeling the magic deep within herself. It had been an age since she had drawn on this wellspring of power, and she did so now only out of desperation. Her mother had not failed her; now she needed to not fail her mother. That Byleth was able to discover a deception without conscious thought meant the sign was real, that the symbol was real. Sothis was here, returned to the mortal plane, and she needed her daughter’s aid.

The Archbishop of Fodlan would not fail her filial duty now, not at this critical moment when under siege by apostates.

The power of her own Sign stirred within her, and she could feel its power and her heritage filling her, intoxicating her mind with its strength. Her Sign was that of The Sky, The Heavens, which encompassed the entirety of the world beneath it. The Sky was undividable, and immutable over the Ages. Whatever The Sky experienced, every soul experienced, for all creatures beneath its gaze.

As Rhea stretched her arms to the heavens, the blue and white vault above her slowly darkened, swirling clouds summoned into being by her will, even as long minutes passed throughout her ritual. And as she continued to pray desperate prayers to her Mother, the first drops of rain began to fall.

*

The stiff resistance at the inn had convinced Lonato’s soldiers to seek easier prey, at least for the moment. Dorothea knew that would change the instant their opposition became more organized, and she sagged against the rough timber wall of the inn, exhausted and her heart racing as if she had run for miles. She didn’t think she’d ever cast that much anima that quickly ever before, and in this state, she wasn’t going to be much use to anybody. Hilda and a man bigger than even Raphael moved about the interior, piling furniture and barrels into makeshift barricades at the door and windows, ignoring the frustrated shouts and insults of Lonato’s men from the outside. Mercedes moved about among the wounded in the back of the common room, at the suggestion of the grey-cloaked leader, who had then mysteriously vanished once more.

Footsteps against the woodboards made her look up. It was the dour and dark-skinned redhead named Hapi. Dorothea wondered if her name was a joke as the woman knelt by her and offered her a foaming tankard.

“Here,” muttered Hapi. “Drink up.”

“I don’t like beer or ale,” Dorothea smiled wanly.

“Suit yourself,” said the Abyssian, taking her own sloppy drink from the mug. “Me personally, if we’re about to die, I’d prefer to at least have a buzz going out.”

Dorothea silently reached for the tankard.

“Thought you might change your mind,” nodded the redhead, standing up. “Yuri-bird’s decided to help you all for now, including those Knights. They’re helping the rest of the townspeople evacuate right now. But they’ll be back soon, and then we can decide what we’re going to do.”

The songstress sipped at the reeking brew, her tired mind recalling one word. “Evacuate?”

A careless shrug. “We know the secret paths underneath the monastery and town. Lots of catacombs, tunnels. They’re pretty dark, so it won’t be pleasant for a lot of the townsfolk, but it’s better than having a sword in your gut, so there’s that.” She stood, and was about to turn and leave but then looked back at Dorothea. “By the way, you’re not a bad mage. What’s your name?”

“Dorothea.”

Hapi gave a slight smile down at her. “Gotcha, Doris.”

*

Jeralt thanked the stars for the warning from Byleth and Leonie. Without it, Lonato’s Knights almost certainly would have seized and held the gates, allowing the rest of the army a path inside the monastery walls. He briefly prayed wordlessly for his daughter in the town below, then resumed calling out orders once more, directing noncombatants inside and persuading the merchants inside the monastery’s gate to abandon their stalls, on his word as the Blade-Breaker. That mollified most of them, but he was having trouble with the last one. He knew her well. Had known her for decades, actually, but she was, if anything, even more ageless than him.

“Listen, Jeralt! I’m not some weak-ass merchant you can make back down just being all tall and scarred,” Anna shouted, her sword already unsheathed, but thankfully not pointed at him. She scowled up at him, clearly ready for fighting. “You wouldn’t believe how long it has taken me to gather my wares here, and if Lord Loony Lonny wants to rob me, he’s going to find out I can cut more than just my prices!”

Jeralt decided a change of tactics was in order. “These _are_ fine pieces,” he said carefully, hefting a lance from a display rack on her wagon stall. “Tell you what. You let me use this one in battle, and I’ll owe you a month’s salary as a Professor. Also, you follow my orders.”

Anna flicked her bright red ponytail, but her eyes gleamed at the haggling. “Two months, and you’ve got a deal, old man.”

“Fine,” he grunted. Money didn’t mean a whole lot to him, beyond paying for tabs and keeping operations going and his men paid. Now that he was part of the Church again, most of that was done for free.

“Captain Teach!”

Claude raced up to him with the rest of the Golden Deer, all of them armed and armored. Good. Behind them, he could see Manuela and Edelgard approaching, with some of the Black Eagles. Dimitri and Hanneman with the Blue Lions were running up from the docks, but something was off.

“Where’s the rest?” he asked Claude.

Claude was grim and angry. “That’s the thing, Teach. They’re trapped in the town, along with your daughter.”

Dimitri ran up to Jeralt with Felix and Dedue on his tail. Ashe trailed listlessly behind them, his face downcast. “Captain! I am sorry, but half of my class is missing…”

“They’re not missing, boar,” interrupted Felix, fingering his swords with a glance at the gate. “Ingrid was with me and your dog when she heard the news, but she ran off…”

Manuela spoke up as she reached the group. “Have any of you seen Caspar or Dorothea? Or Ferdinand?”

Dedue turned to the Black Eagle Professor. “Dorothea was one of the students going into the town today for some shopping. I do not know of the others.”

Linhardt perked up at that, his brow furrowed in concern. “Caspar told me he was going shopping…”

Lysithea looked around herself. “Wait, Lorenz was with me in the library. Why isn’t he here now?”

“Uh, well, Professor Jeralt? I think...I saw Lorenz going to the stables, with Sylvain…” stuttered Ignatz sheepishly.

Hanneman was looking between the three House Leaders and other Professors. “You do not think…”

Jeralt was almost afraid his teeth were going to break, he was grinding them so hard. “Of course. Those little noble assholes.”

*

Ingrid was busy strapping herself into Snowmane in the monastery stables, feeling foolish and half-naked without most of her armor. Leonie had warned them to meet at the gate only a few minutes ago, and Ingrid bolted instantly to her room, her pulse quickening at the thought of a real battle, where she could unleash all of her power and training. Dimitri and Felix had participated in putting down a rebellion in Western Faerghus, two years ago, and her father had forbidden her from participating. Now she was going to get her chance. She had barely buckled her breastplate to her chest and was strapping on her arm guards in her dorm room when her thoughts caught up with her actions.

Dorothea. Dorothea _was in town_ today. Shopping for her.

The subsequent panic that rose up in her body almost made her physically sick. Dorothea had become her best friend at the monastery, without all of the emotional baggage that came with her childhood playmates. She had been looking forward to hearing Dorothea sing in the performance this evening, if only to see the way she absolutely glowed while doing so, making the songstress appear so beautiful it gave Ingrid a tilting sense of unreality. Dorothea fussed over her, accepted her without judgement, and was kind and solicitous and graceful and charming enough for the both of them. True, she was also flighty and dramatic, a relentless teasing flirt, and sometimes compulsively needy in ways that made Ingrid freeze up with confusion, but she was not going to die today. Not if Ingrid Brandl Galatea, the last great hope of House Galatea, was going to have anything to do with it. Not even if an army stood between them.

Snowmane was anxiously stretching his wings, feeling her agitation, eager to take flight. She was still testing herself in her saddlestraps when an unlikely trio joined her at the stables.

“Hey, Ingrid,” shouted Sylvain with a grin, a large chestplate and helmet making him look almost comical with his lance, mainly because like herself, he had neglected to put on his greaves. “Looks like you had the same idea we did!”

“What the hell are you doing, Sylvain?” she shouted back at him, not in the mood for any games.

Ferdinand was entirely armored in plate somehow in the short time they had received the warning, and with an genteel assist from Lorenz, managed to mount his own horse, accepting his lance from Lorenz after he settled on his seat. Somehow his and Sylvain’s horses were already saddled. Possibly by Lorenz. “We heard the ladies were trapped in the town by Lonato’s vile brigands. It is our noble duty to provide assistance. You are most welcome to cover us from the air, Lady Ingrid!” called out the Black Eagle, his horse already prancing about.

Only Lorenz was still in his cadet uniform, but Ingrid reminded herself he had extensively trained in sorcery, too. He led a large black destrier without bridle or saddle from the stable proper, but it must have been his own personal mount, for it obeyed his slightest touch without question. He skillfully vaulted onto his horse’s back with a high leap, then struck an absurd pose, as if he were in a painting. “Let us be off, my fellow nobles! The east gate to the stable grounds is still open, but not for long!”

“What the _fuck_ are you noble brats doing?”

The shout rang out with absolute authority. Knight Shamir advanced on all of them from the gardens, her eyes murderous as she shouted again. “You were ordered to muster at the front gate! Where the hell are you going?”

Ferdinand and Lorenz froze at seeing Shamir unexpectedly, but Sylvain was already kicking his heels into his mount’s flanks. “Hi Shamir! Bye Shamir!”

The archer made a desperate grab for the reins, but stumbled off the horseflesh as she had to move aside to avoid being trampled. Lorenz and Ferdinand urged their mounts to follow Sylvain, and soon all three were past, heading to east gate at a canter.

Ingrid tried to wheel her own mount away to fly, but Shamir was already up and yelling, her composure lost. “Hold it, Ingrid! Those three idiots are in big enough trouble. If you follow them now, that’s two direct orders you’re disobeying! We’re planning a sortie at the gate, but we need everyone there! Wait, damn you!”

Ingrid’s hands tightened on the reins and her lance, feeling Snowmane’s body quiver in anticipation at a flight beneath her. She bowed her head. Maybe Shamir had a point. With more organization, they could rout Lonato’s forces easily. It wouldn’t take that much time.

But an image of Dorothea lying cold and dead, her voice utterly stilled, when she could have done something to prevent it, would not leave her.

Blinking away her shame, Ingrid forced her voice to firmness, shaking her head at the foreign Knight. “I’m sorry, Shamir. I can’t.”

Shamir looked sad at her decision, even as Leonie and Knight Beatrix came running to join her. “Then you’ll never be a Knight, Ingrid,” she called out in warning.

Ingrid shook her head again, yanking on the reins to turn her pegasus. “That’s fine,” she replied over her shoulder. “It was a stupid dream, anyway. It was never going to happen.” With that she kicked her mount hard, and with a running jump and a beat of mighty wings, Snowmane lifted her in the air. The wind brushed away her tears, even as she hardened herself to accept her impulsive choice. She had debated with Felix constantly over this issue, and before she had even fought her first real battle, it was here. The choice between obeying orders without question, or defying them. But making it was easier than she thought as she soared into the blue and white sky, banking her mount to follow Sylvain and the others. For once, she wasn’t doing something for a selfish, childish dream or considering how she would be perceived by others.

Instead, she was following her heart.

*

Caspar blinked and tried to clear the cobwebs from his head. Musty books and smoke were everywhere, and the only things he could see in the dim light. He shifted a little to feel something very hard on his back, with something softer beneath him. He moved as much as he could to see the pale face of Annette close to his own, her flashburned face nearly as red as her hair, her eyes closed. But at least she was breathing...he thought.

Memories returned slowly. He had been fighting, then Constance helped him, and then there was a masked mage--burning the whole place down on top of them, he finally recalled. He tried to shift his legs underneath his body, and managed to get one aching knee under him. Straining, he groaned in pain as he barely managed to budge the bookshelf the two of them were trapped beneath. He muttered an expletive and tried to breathe as deeply as possible for another try.

“Dear Caspar,” a slow, despairing voice moaned. “Is that you? Did my unworthy and hopeless efforts save you, at least temporarily?”

He frowned. Who was that? Was it Constance? It sure didn’t sound like her. Maybe she had been hurt by that weird mage, too. “Constance!” he yelled with a cough. “We’re trapped under here! Can you get us out? Hurry! It’s a...little...hard...to breath,” he retched as smoke entered his windpipe.

“Forgive me. My own inadequate perception and talent did not protect you completely. There may be a spell I can cast, but I am so useless I am afraid I will only cause you more harm…”

“Constance! Hurry!” he yelled again. She must be _really_ hurt. He had heard head wounds could be like that, and change a person’s personality drastically.

“Your pardon. You are well within your rights to admonish me, and it is entirely deserved. Please know that I warned you against this course of action of relying on me.”

Caspar grunted and tried to lift again, just to help whatever Crazy Magic Flower Girl was doing. Slowly at first, then much faster, he could slowly stand against the bookcase, as it was getting much lighter very quickly. The musty smell increased, and as he pushed the weight fully off of himself, he saw with astonishment that the bookcase was rotting, turning into moldy ash through his hands.

Soon it covered himself and Annette, but at least they were free. Sunlight streamed through the blasted roof of the bookshop, and Caspar surveyed his surroundings, trying to find their savior.

Constance was hunched over in a nearby sunshaft, her gloved fingers nervously feeling themselves with jerky, restless movements. Her face looked completely different too, with a hang-dog expression of such servility Caspar at to look twice to make sure it was the same person he met earlier in the bookshop. “I am so sorry,” she muttered in a dejected tone. “I am sure you are furious at me for making you filthy with my weak conjurations. You may beat me for my failure, and please, do not be gentle with your blows.”

He didn’t know how to deal with that, so he ignored the strange noblewoman, and knelt beside the Blue Lion, brushing the ashy dust away from Annette’s mouth and nose. She coughed, but made no other sign of awareness. “She needs healing,” said Caspar, more to himself than to Constance.

“If you wish to beat me later, I could attempt to do so now, though I must mention I am quite unskilled in white magic, having neglected to study it out of boastful idleness.”

Caspar looked around the smoking ruins of the blasted bookstore to notice several men in the strange white tabards approaching them, weapons drawn. A single glance at the Nuvelle noblewoman banished the idea of asking her to attack them. Annette was their only chance now. “Yeah, good idea, Constance,” he said, stepping past her to confront the men. “You do that, and do it quickly.” He shifted his stance as more of the strange men surrounded them. There were too many of them. At least eight. No, ten. All were armed and fresh, and he was wounded and alone and unarmored. He wasn’t even wearing his war gloves.

Well, Dad always warned him he might go out with a bang…

He heard other feet running nearby, but he couldn’t look away from the two soldiers in front of him that rushed forward and attacked. Dodging one weapon was doable, but two were a nightmare. One soldier grinned as he swung a rusty sword in wide slashes at him, keeping him busy, while the other wielded a rough pike, but one with plenty of reach with which to skewer him with a single attack.

The clash of weapons and cries of men erupted all around him, but he was too busy to see who was helping him. He had to jump aside from a pike thrust, a move bringing him too close to the swordsman. A slash would have killed him, but the man chose to thrust his sword point at his head instead. Caspar desperately parried the blade with his left forearm, opening his skin to the bone but saving his life. He unexpectedly jumped backwards from the sword wielder and twisted his body blindly, somehow evading the pike point by pure luck and bringing him inside the range of its wielder. A bloody hand gripped the lance to keep it in place, and Caspar held his right fingers stiff and rigid as he thrust them at the man’s adam’s apple. He felt a hollow popping crunch, and the soldier briefly struggled to stay upright before he fell to the ground, kicking wildly and clutching his throat.

His friend’s death gyrations stunned the swordsman for a moment, so Caspar picked up a nearby book and threw it at his face. The man swung at it with his sword, bringing the large book low but Caspar was already in the air behind it, swinging a heel in a roundhouse kick. The man’s head snapped to the side as an iron shod boot raked his face, forcing the man to drop his weapon. Another three punches sent him down for good.

The Black Eagle’s had snapped around to see if any other attackers were coming at them, but instead, he saw five Knights, three Knights of Seiros and two in different blue tabards. Nearly all of them bore wounds, but the strange attackers were all down or dead, including one Knight of Seiros.

A female Knight in blue clutching a bloody wound in the chain mail of her side stepped forward as the others checked their compatriot. “Nice moves, cadet. You’re all in the Academy?” she asked, looking past him.

Now that the combat was over, Caspar noticed the searing, throbbing pain in his left arm as it dripped blood. He could hardly move it now. “Yeah,” he said, with a glance back at Constance, who was helping a shaken and dazed Annette to her feet. He decided against trying to explain the former Imperial. “The girls are good mages, but they’re shaken up. We need to get off the streets to let them recover so they can help us.”

“Magery would help,” muttered another Knight, standing away from their dead friend. “We’re too exposed out here, Bronwyn.” 

The Knight leader nodded and saluted Caspar with her sword. “I’m Knight-Captain Bronwyn, of House Galatea. Looks like we flew back here just in time.”

Constance took a halting step forward, her blonde-blue locks covering her face as she looked to the ground. “Brave and honorable Knights. I have a small, and perhaps insignificant, contribution I may make, in exchange for saving my pointless life. I have friends we may reach through the catacombs below the town. There is an entrance to the tunnels nearby, although it may simply collapse upon our heads.”

Bronwyn and the other Knights were looking askance, but Caspar tried to laugh it off as he came up to her side. His arm was growing numb, and he was going to need something to stop the bleeding. He was also starting to feel lightheaded, never a good sign. “Ha ha! You know these mages, being all kooky and strange for the oddest reasons! Although despite all that, she’s saved my life at least twice today already. I’d say a third time couldn’t hurt, right? I know Crazy Magic...I mean, Constance von Nuvelle won’t let us down!”

Constance’s voice turned tremulous as she turned an adoring face to him. “Caspar, your faith in me is too-magnificent a gift to bestow upon a lowly creature as myself. I must now attempt to live up to your unwarranted expectations in me. It is a burden I will struggle with for the rest of my days.”

“That’s great, Constance, really,” stammered Caspar, shushing Annette as she noted the change in Constance as well. “Lead on, will you? And let’s try to find more Knights on the way!”

*

Hilda grunted as she strained against the barricaded door, which was being beaten periodically with a ram. “By the Five Saints! What is with these guys? They’re like, totally obsessed with getting in here or something!”

The dark haired man in the stained grey vest pushing furniture next to her grinned. “Maybe it’s me they want. I did rack up some pretty big debts in the Alliance...Kingdom, too...and well, there were several incidents in the Empire too, now that I...oof…” he grunted, as another charge at the door pushed them both backwards.

“I suppose you couldn’t just be a dear and sacrifice yourself...urgh...for the rest of us?” Hilda whined between blows.

“No can do, kiddo,” smirked the giant rogue. “I intend to live to a ripe old age! Anyway, the King of Grappling maintains his title by...ow!...picking his battles wisely…”

“King of what?” asked Hilda curiously, looking closer at him. “I knew someone who called himself that...he was friends with my brother, Holst…”

The large man narrowed his eyes at her, even as he leaned back against the stacked tables and crates. “No way...is that you, lil’ Hil? You’re in the Officer’s Academy?!” He barked a deep laugh.

“Baltie! It is you! I barely recognized you!” A crash.

“Heh...it’s been almost ten years, hasn’t it? You’re what, seventeen now?” Another crash.

“I’m eighteen! I’m a full noblewomen in my own right...or at least Holst thinks I will be after I graduate,” she mumbled. Wood began to splinter and crack, and the hinges rocked out of their pegs.

When they could look up from the pushing back on the barricade, Hilda noticed the grey cloaked figure with the hood was by them, along with the redhead tan woman. Mercedes and Dorothea hung behind them, whispering to each other. “Sorry to disturb your lovely reunion,” they said with obvious amusement. “But unless we think of something soon, we’re all going to die.”

“Coco’s not back yet,” muttered the redhead. “She’s probably dead. She might have got caught in the sunlight, and in her condition…”

“Constance knows how to take care of herself, Hapi,” reassured the cloaked mystery person. Hilda tried to peer inside the hood to see their identity, but she only glimpsed some purple hair. Obviously the leader of this little group, though, including Baltie. She had seen them ordering the big lug around. “Anyway, I’ve got the rest of the gang trying to save the remaining of the townsfolk. It’s going easier because there’s small groups of Knights attacking Lonato’s forces. They’re being a useful distraction.”

“So what?” said Hapi scornfully. “That’s not helping _us_. These assholes outside are probably after those Knights you told me to keep in the cellar. We should just give them up. Then make a break for it.”

“Hey! That wasn’t our deal, jerks!” shouted Hilda, still straining against the door. “That’s Thunder Catherine and Knight-General Byleth you’ve got down there! I told you, they’re very important, and Lady Rhea’s gonna be pissed if you don’t help save them!”

The figure shrugged. “I didn’t know they were the singular focus of this attack. I’d say that’s worth sweetening the pot a little, don’t you think?”

Dorothea and Mercedes joined them, with the songstress stepping forward as spokeswoman. “We can’t promise much...but I swear we’ll all put in a good word...Yuri, wasn’t it? I’m in the Black Eagles, Hilda’s in the Golden Deer, and sweet Mercedes here is in the Blue Lions. You’ll have everyone at the Academy indebted to you if you help us, regardless of your...pasts.”

The leader threw their hood back, and Hilda looked twice in surprise. They were _very_ pretty but...a man? A woman? Hilda couldn’t decide, no matter how many times she studied the androgynous features, even with the purple eyeshadow.

The leader called Yuri smiled at Baltie and Hapi, then back at Dorothea. “That’s a song we’ve heard sung to us before, but you know what? Sometimes it can’t hurt to have a repeat performance,” they said in a sardonic tone, before turning to face Hapi. “And we still have our trump card to play.”

Hapi glared back at Yuri, her face becoming narrow and bitter. “Yuri. I’m not an object for you to use. I’m a person too, you know.”

The wood cracked again, and the doors almost buckled open, almost throwing her and Baltie to the floor. Battle shouts were heard outside, along with the sounds of weapons being unsheathed, and voices raised in commanding orders. Hilda threw herself back against the nearly wrecked barricade with Baltie, resigned to shoving the mass of wood back in place. “Guys, whatever it is you’re planning…” she yelled.

“Hapi, I’m so sorry, that was terribly insensitive of me,” said Yuri with a bow. “But I wouldn’t ask unless it was absolutely necessary. Besides, it saves our lives, too, right? That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

The strange redhead grouched at Yuri for a moment longer. Then she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, blowing out a long and gusty sigh. “Fine,” she said with a roll of her shoulders. “You asked for it.”

Hilda blinked in confusion, looking to Dorothea and Mercedes, who looked equally lost.

And then all hell broke loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think something bad happened to Constance to make her personality change drastically with the sun, but I'm not sure I'll go into detail. There seems to be a lot of tortured/abused women in Three Houses, but...not a lot of tortured men. I mean, the men do a lot of self-torture, but that's not nearly the same thing. I think Emile is the only one, and look at how he turned out. Maybe Claude's a candidate too. I'll try to avoid dwelling on that trope. Maybe I'll even reverse it!


	25. Blessings of the Goddess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried to feel  
> Instead I believed and  
> that caused trouble.
> 
> __
> 
> Byleth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN/TW: Lots of internalized self-hate, misogyny, implications of abuse, gore, and violence in this chapter. And a near-death scene. Letting my GRRM and Steven Erikson and Elizabeth Haydon freak flag fly with FE characters.

Blessings of the Goddess

Hubert waited in the dungeons, a hand up and ready, prepared to fire a lethal spell in an instant in case they were spotted.

Muffled cries came from inside the cells as Jeritza went about his work, but there were always cries of pain and misery in the Church’s sacred dungeons, weren’t there? He almost wished Lady Edelgard was here to see it, even though he knew the sights and sounds would only traumatize her further. A carefully edited report, then, of the grotesque hypocrisy that existed beneath the feet of the pious brothers and sisters of Garreg Mach Monastery. Further proof, as if it were necessary, that the Church of Seiros was a blight upon the land of Fodlan.

He had to admit, however, that he had a certain professional appreciation of the atmosphere here. Clearly, the Central Church had vast experience in coercion and making problems...disappear. If he had the time or inclination, he would have taken notes of the layout, the exact dimensions of the oubliettes...

A last, begging groan came from the closest cell nearby, but soon ceased, and the door opened for the tall form of the scion of House Bartels to exit. His armored uniform, his long platinum hair, and even his mask were spotless of any drop of blood. Extraordinary. “What should I do with the blade?” he intoned deeply, holding out the blood smeared rusty iron shortsword to Hubert.

“Toss it into a hole,” smirked Hubert. “Let them stumble about and think they’ve discovered a ‘clue.’ Be on with it, however. We are expected soon at the front gate, and I can only teleport us so far.”

*

“My Lord! We’re almost through the doors!”

“Finally,” nodded Lonato in satisfaction from his horse, turning to another loyal retainer and friend on horseback. “Marcus, sound a recall to the rest of our men. We’ve sacked this town of heretics long enough. It has come time to make for the gates of the monastery itself, with the heads of their greatest Knights on display for Rhea!”

“Yes, my Lord!” Marcus raised a trumpet to his lips, sounding a long, shrill blast through the horn. Gaspard men immediately began surging to their position, some bearing wounds, some grinning with bulging pockets. Lonato nodded in satisfaction at the sight. Cassandra’s cowardly attacks and uses of magic had hurt some of his men, and caused many to become unhorsed. Her initial attack had caused them great confusion, but it was finally time for her to be punished.

“Very good, my Lord,” said the masked voice near his thigh. He glanced downward to see the bird plague mask of his associate bobbing its head in approval. “Your faith to the Western Church is beyond compare. Soon we will cleanse the Kingdom, and then Fodlan, of the political witch who controls it.”

“Yes, yes,” muttered the old Knight, feeling the strength and vigor of his youth filling him as he gripped his precious spear, gifted to him by these mages. These Western Church magickers had told him the unnatural power in his body would not last. But then again, it didn’t need to, did it? Once he had stabbed that lying, smiling murderess who had had the termity to ever claim she loved his son through the throat, once he had thrown Rhea’s body from the spire of her own Cathedral, then he could rest, and be at peace with the Goddess. Lonato once would have considered violence against women shameful. Now, it filled him with dark joy, set against his injuries. He nodded down to his masked accomplice. “There are heretic mages inside, Laius. Your power will be required to deal with them.”

“Some have already been dealt with,” chuckled the mage called Laius viciously. “But you are correct, my Lord. Once your men open the way, I will be free to cast my spells inside the building. The entire structure should collapse on their heads.”

“But Cassandra…” growled Lonato, not willing to accede to the suggestion unless he could see the corpse himself.

The black robes lifted in a mollifying shrug. “She wields a Relic, my Lord. It is too dangerous to engage her directly. I am sorry I was unable to assist you with her earlier, but we did not expect a force of Knights to make it back to Garreg Mach in time. We will need all of our forces to attack the gate. And even if the gates are closed, you may use the power of the artifact to open them.”

“Yes...you are right,” nodded Lonato to the mage, still seething, but resigned to it. He could not have gotten this far without their support, after all. Christophe would have wanted him to finish the job with Rhea. He could hear his son’s voice now, apologizing to his father for trusting a Charon with such an important task, and blaming himself for it. _Father, it’s my fault. I got myself killed by Cassandra, and no one else. I was foolish to trust her. I’m sorry, Dad. Tell Ashe and the others I’m sorry, as well. I’m with Mom now, and by the Goddess’ side. I was at least on her side, Dad._

“My Lord,” the mage’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “Please move the rest of your companies back, and tell the men wielding the ram to flee as soon as they break through.” The orders were polite, but still condescending.

Lonato wiped a tear from his leathery cheek, ignoring the mage stepping past his horse, and signalled Marcus to relay the orders. With a concerned nod to his Lord, the retainer complied, barking at subofficers and their squads.

Lonato ignored it all as his men surged into their new positions around his banner, stationed at the base of the slope to the monastery proper. Let these Western Church fools think they were using him. He cared not. He was the one using them. Marcus had orders to take a squad and seek out Ashe inside the monastery, and explain things to him, while Lonato would make his way to Rhea. Ashe would be a good Lord of the Kingdom, and it was a way to spit in the eye beyond the grave of every Kingdom noble who had turned their backs on him in his protests and pleas for justice for his trueborn son. _I’m putting a boy thief and his siblings amongst you, My Lords_. _My new heirs. So much for the purity of your bloodlines_ , the old man thought bitterly.

Lonato felt a drop on his head, then another. Glancing up, he was surprised to note the sky was now overcast and rain was beginning to fall. Blasted luck. He wanted the entirety of the city at the monastery’s base to burn, but that was unlikely now. Still, he noted the fires his men had set were burning quite strongly now, and it was unlikely the rain would put them out soon.

The Kingdom Lord shook himself once more from his musings, seeing that the men wielding the battering ram had at last shattered the barricade at the front door of this inn. The doors crashed open completely off their hinges, and crates and furniture scattered in all directions inside. Practiced for this moment, his soldiers dropped the large log and jumped back, raising shields and drawing weapons, but no movement came from the dark interior. Lonato grinned at the thought of Cassandra Rubens Charon dying like a rat beneath collapsing timber, cowering in a cellar as she knew she was surrounded. Perhaps it was truly better this way.

Laius walked to a medium distance from the open portal of the barricaded inn, protected by the flankers on either side, and began to move his hands and mutter strange phrases, ignoring the downpour around him. Knights and peasants alike edged backwards from the masked mage in black, as runes and glyphs glowed into being before his hands. Even Lonato could feel his skin prickling into gooseflesh beneath his plate armor. The spell was likely to be a powerful one, and he opened his mouth to order his men further back--

\--and then there was a low rumble, a subsonic grinding and echoing that made the world itself seem to shake. His horse turned restlessly as the animal itself was vibrating. Lonato looked around, confused, because he had no seen any flash of lightning to accompany the thunder--

\--and the cobbles in the street burst upwards with a storm of dirt and confusion, throwing men and even horses crying out in pain in every direction, accompanied by an ear-splitting roar, the scream of a demonic tea-kettle boiling over.

His horse reared, and Lonato desperately grabbed the neck and saddlehorn to keep from being thrown, dropping his spear. Men were running in every direction, screaming nonsense. When he could finally raise himself up from the neck of his horse, Lonato gaped at the sight in the street before the inn that roared before him. A wurm. A giant wurm, the fabled burrowers of the Sreng Desert and the mountains of Fodlans’ Throat. It was enormous, a coiled monstrosity wider than two horses across with a gaping, eyeless maw that could swallow a man whole. Which it was doing now, if the kicking, jerking legs of the mage Laius in the monster’s mouth was any indication. With a flexing, upward undulation of its body, the beast finished its meal and then gave another searing hiss at everything in the street around it, its breath a wave of carrion stench that made the strongest men gag and heave. As if in celebration of the monster’s arrival, the heavens shook with a mighty blast of lightning and thunder. 

“My Lord! Are you uninjured?”

Marcus, loyal Marcus was by his side, pushing the dropped holy spear into his hand. And the rest of his Knights and men, there were still hundreds of them, weren’t there? Most of his men were closer to the monastery than the creature, where they had been preparing for the final assault on the gates of Garreg Mach. There was still a chance. For Christophe’s sake, there had to be. Let Cassandra be eaten by that monster. Rhea. Killing Rhea was what Christophe had dreamed of, of finally removing that apostate imposter and placing a faithful Kingdom Bishop on the Archbishop’s throne. Lonato straightened in his saddle, and urged his frightened horse away from the creature, ignoring the doomed cries of the men trapped by its ravenous hunger.

“Men of Gaspard,” he screamed to his soldiers over the sound of the rain. “See what dark powers Rhea summons against us! The very beasts from the black underworld obey her whims! This is the darkness we must fight against, for our families, for our children, _for our very souls!”_ The wurm bellowed behind him, with the screams of his condemned men intermingled with it. “To the monastery! Ignore the beast! Let the Central Church know that true Children of the Goddess still stand against it!”

His men roared in fanatical assent, and began the march up the muddy hill to the monastery gates.

*

Byleth awoke with dirt in her nose and mouth, and hearing screams and deep shuddering thuds, along with something that sounded like a very large, very angry animal. Mercedes was kneeling above her, a shining palm on her blue head, but the light soon flickered and grew faint. The cadet fell backwards on her rump, gasping in exhaustion. “I’m sorry...Knight-General...all I can do…” she mumbled, her head falling to her chest as she leaned heavily against the wall.

Byleth rolled to her feet, picking her sword up from the ground. “No, Mercedes, I’m fine. Thank you,” she nodded to the exhausted woman, then looked up. The air was tense, as a similarly healed Catherine had her Relic sword pointed at the redhead and grey cloaked leader they had seen earlier. Hilda, Dorothea, and the large black haired man she had seen earlier stood nearby the cellar doorway.

The purple haired personage was attempting to forestall an angry Catherine. “Really? This is the thanks we get for giving you shelter?” they said in a smiling voice, but Byleth also sensed that they were becoming dangerous, the fingers of their right hand ready to draw their sword in an instant.

“Feels more like a kidnapping,” growled Catherine, widening her stance. Her hair and armor was still matted and red, but her eyes were bright and steady. “I’m not turning my back on you kids until I know what the hell is going on.”

The redhead next to the leader appeared like she wanted to sigh, but the purple haired one slightly nudged her. She settled for rolling her eyes. “And this is why we don’t like dealing with Knights. Way too black and white for my worldview. Or any worldview. Always demanding answers, never offering solutions.”

“Stand down, Catherine,” said Byleth quietly. She got a mutinous glare in return, but added, “If they wanted to kill us, we wouldn’t have woken up. If they thought we were enemies, they would have disarmed us. So they need us for some reason.”

“Wow,” muttered the redhead...Hapi, Byleth now remembered. “A Knight with a brain. Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“I told you she was special,” groused Hilda with a fold of her arms, wagging her pigtails. “She’s Knight-General Byleth, and already super-famous across Fodlan. She was the Ashen Demon before she became a Knight!”

Instantly the three strangers regarded her with more respect. Byleth looked at them in turn, and she sheathed her sword and stepped forward to nod at each of them, as she would have done as a mercenary. If being a Knight of Seiros was a liability with these people, she wasn’t going to insist on the fact. “I’m Byleth, formerly adjutant for Captain Jeralt’s Mercenaries. Joining the Church of Seiros is a long story, but that can wait. What’s the situation?”

“As I live and breathe,” smiled the leader easily, but their purple eyes were now even more guarded. “Jeralt’s daughter? I’ve heard of you. And have given every one of my gangs the order to give you and Remire a wide berth, or wherever you were campaigning. Let’s not mince words, shall we? We need some help now. Hapi chased off Lonato’s army with one of her summons, but now that summoned creature is after her. An unfortunate side effect. I need your help to kill it.” The cellar shook violently, and dust from the floorboards rained down on them. The smile widened. “Soon, hopefully.”

An agitated roar came from the outside, with another deep shaking rumble that everyone felt through their feet.

Byleth nodded to Catherine, who had finally lowered her sword, then looked back at the leader. A guildmaster of thieves, probably, with the way they carried themselves. She couldn’t tell if the androgynous face was a trick of the light or an excellent disguise, letting them blend past any social barrier. “Sounds like a monster out there,” Byleth said dryly.

“Yeah,” said Hapi, hugging herself and looking down. “You ever had a power you never asked for and never wanted?”

“Yes,” said Byleth with a nod, before her brain caught up with her mouth.

“Huh,” smiled Hapi up at her, although her red eyes were still sad. She nodded to her companion. “Yuri, I like this one. What should I call her? Perhaps Demon Knight. Suits you, DK.”

“So you want us to help kill this monster outside?” Catherine drawled, finally standing straight hefting Thunderbrand up to a pauldron.

“Yup,” announced the large raven haired man, banging his gauntleted knuckles together. “We’ll help too, sure, but Hapi out-did herself with this summoning. A big ‘un. Couldn’t have handled it on our own. Oh, um, and yeah, we’re also all pardoned for our past crimes against the Church of Seiros.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me if you think you can extort us,” snapped Catherine.

Byleth ignored the debate. “Where’s Lonato?” she demanded. “Killing him is our first priority.”

“He’s at the gates of the monastery,” shrugged the leader, apparently called Yuri, disinterestedly. “Nothing to be done for it now. He missed his chance to kill you, but you’ve missed your chance to kill him. I think Rhea will handle him and his army easily enough.”

Surprise from Catherine. “You know Lady Rhea?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” smiled the gang leader. “But leave that aside for now. We’ve got a wurm to kill. Or more specifically, you do. I think my other mage associate is in trouble, if that lightning bolt we saw was any indication. We were still evacuating people on that side of town.”

“It’s something for Seteth and the Archbishop to sort out, Catherine. If we live.” Catherine grumbled a bit but assented, and Byleth turned to Hilda and Dorothea. The songstress immediately saw the question in her eyes and shrugged helplessly. “I’m feeling more used up than a nobleman’s daughter right now, Bylie. But maybe I’ve got one or two still left in me.” She hiccuped suddenly and covered her mouth in embarrassment.

Hapi was grinning, but Byleth couldn’t see the reason why. Hilda was already innocently twirling a pigtail on a finger when she turned to look at her. “Gee, Knight Byleth, I’d love to help, but I’m a little tired and sore already…”

“Hilda, you have a choice,” snapped Byleth, in no mood for her games. “You can be on point or behind Catherine and me. Which is it?”

“Urgh! Fine! Behind you.”

“Don’t worry, kiddo, I’ve got your back. Holst would eat my heart raw if I let something happen to you,” grinned the brawler, elbowing Hilda. The short girl only looked slightly mollified, but the building shuddered again, with cries of panic coming from up the stairs. The tenor of the beast’s roars changed suddenly, and there was a different sort of low rumble. Dorothea edged past Hilda and looked up the stairway. “That sounded like a fireball,” she reported to the group.

“Someone else is attacking the wurm? Great! Let’s leave them to it!” chirped Hilda with a bright smile.

Byleth was already moving to the stairs. “Let’s see who it is, first.”

*

Caspar was forced to lean hard against Annette before too long. One of her hair ribbons was tied around his arm as a makeshift tourniquet. The short Blue Lion had already cast three fireballs in their mad dash through the chaotic streets, scattering Gaspard soldiers who were slowly disengaging from the rest of the fighting in the town, mustering someplace else unknown. The Knights met more of their fellows, in groups of two or three that linked up with their growing company, numbering almost fifty by now. Constance dragged her feet leading them down a side street towards the poor quarter, saying the entrance was not far, but bemoaning their chances of ever making it. Annette was finding it hard not to agree with her depressing personality as they rounded the last supposed street turn. Her stamina was quickly giving out between the magical exertion and physically holding up the wounded Caspar.

What they found was a dirty town square where a morass of villagers and townspeople were being escorted into an alleyway and a nearby building by squads of burly men in grey uniform patchwork armor. A handful were standing guard, and they tensed when they saw the Knights, but relaxed when they saw Constance in the lead of the formation down the street.

“Constance! Who’re your friends?” one shouted.

“My weak life was saved by these noble Knights and generous Academy students,” Constance explained dolefully with a wave of her arm. “They also desire to seek shelter underground, if you may forgive my arrogant presumption. Please beg forgiveness from Yuri on my behalf…”

“Yeah, yeah, CooCoo, we get it,” snorted another thug, stepping past her. He eyed the Knights, many of them with their bloody weapons still drawn, hesitating at the sight of the man. “We’re trying to get the people to safety, Sirs and Sirettes. If you high and mighty Knights don’t mind sharing space with us, we’ll welcome the help,” he bellowed.

One of the Knights of Seiros scowled at the man and spat on the street. “You’re taking them into the Abyss?”

The thug gave him a look of scornful pity. “Better than life up here right now, isn’t it, topsider?”

Knight-Captain Bronwyn stepped forward and tried to take command of the situation. “What’s the Abyss?”

“Our home,” grunted the thug, unwilling to elaborate, but the Knight of Seiros explained it to her. “The Abyss is Garreg Mach’s underworld. There’s hundreds of years of catacombs and forgotten temples built into the hillside of the mountain, beneath the monastery proper. It’s now become a hideout for thieves and other bowel-dwellers,” said the Knight, spitting again.

The ruffians laughed uproariously at his words. “Bowel-dwellers? Aye, we’re the worms in the Archbishop’s gut, ain’t we just?” said the spokesman, but his mirth soon stopped. His head lifted and his gaze widened as he suddenly started cursing. “Damn! You’ve led them right to us, you blasted metalheads! Behind you!”

Annette staggered with Caspar’s growing weight against her as she tried to turn with the Knights. A full company of Gaspard soldiers were coming up the street, with a Knight in a tabard of the Western Church on horseback in their lead. “So the Knights of Seiros have managed a pathetic little last stand? Fitting for a bunch of Central Church heretics! There can be no forgiveness for those who kneel before the Black Archbishop!” laughed the helmed and visored Knight in a hollow echo. He unlimbered a war axe from his back and readied his shield and raised his voice again. “Throw down your weapons, vile sinners, and beg forgiveness from the Goddess, and we may yet spare you! All you must do is deny the tyrant Rhea, the Dark Goddess Reborn!”

Knight Bronwyn glanced at Annette through the speech, and she shook her head helplessly with tears in her eyes. She had nothing left to cast within her, and now she might die without ever seeing her father or mother ever again. Caspar’s head was rolling and he was in no condition to even walk, much less fight. The Knight smiled and nodded at her in heartfelt compassion, before she turned her grim features again to the Gaspard force and yelled back, “We are Knights of the Kingdom and the Church who have stayed true, oathbreakers! Your conflict is with us! Leave the townsfolk and the children from the Academy out of our battle!”

“Children from the Academy?” laughed the Knight, his men chortling with him. “Thank you for showing us the hostages, fool! We will be taking them now!” More quietly, he ordered something to one of his subordinates, and in short order, squads wielding bows and crossbows came forward, ready to let loose arrows and quarrels. Above, the clouds swirled overhead, finally masking the sunlight and making the haze of the smoke-filled town darker and greyer. Rain began to pit and pat in small droplets that slowly became larger ones.

A Knight pushed Annette and Caspar to the wall of a building, behind the bloody half-company, many of them already muttering prayers to Sothis or Rhea. One of the Kingdom Knights moved to do the same for Constance, but she stiffened and stood up straight, breaking his grip with an indignant flip of her wrist. “Unhand me, boor! Constance von Nuvelle does not submit to such unmannerly treatment!”

The two thugs in grey started grinning. “Look at that! She’s back! Heya CooCoo!”

“I explicitly forewarned you louts to not call me that, ever again,” howled Constance in protest, her hands starting to glow bright in threat. The gang members laughed off the warning and gave her mocking bows.

“Connie!” yelled Annette desperately from where she leaned on the wall. The rain was starting to fall faster now. She didn’t know what caused the noblewoman to have such a drastic personality shift, but right now she didn’t care. “We’re about to be attacked! See those men behind you?”

Constance turned slowly and sniffed daintily, drawing her fan from her belt. She snapped it open and began fluttering her face, ignoring the rain. “Ah yes. Gaspard fools from the Western Church, prattling on about heresy and Church doctrine. How very quotidian,” she groaned, marching past the dumbfounded Church and Kingdom Knights, twirling her dress away from any blood or mud, finally moving to stand alone before the mounted Knight and the dozens of archers aiming at her. She pointed to the Gaspard Knight with a standoffish gesture. “You there! Sir Fool! Are you in charge of this rabble? I demand that you vacate this town at once, unless you wish to face the ire of the last daughter of House Nuvelle!”

The enemy Knight gave another hollow laugh. “What is this? Another nobleborn brat? But wait, you can’t even be a noble, can you? House Nuvelle is extinct! So then you’re just a deluded peasant woman, hoping for a good Crest marriage…!”

“Oh ho ho, but I can prove my lineage, good Sir Fool!” laughed Constance as she floated up into the air without wind. The rainfall parted for her presence, refusing to touch a strand of her golden-blue hair. She grinned evilly. “Since you love the Goddess so much, allow me to be the one to escort you to her!” Sparks began to radiate out from her being, and the Knights behind her instantly backed away. Constance’s eyes began to glow as yellow runes and glyphs swirled before her hands in the air. Annette gasped in recognition and yelled, “Everyone cover your ears! Get down--”

Only half had listened to her when the massive thunderclap blinded and deafened everyone in the vicinity. Annette fell stunned to the ground, but managed to maneuver Caspar so he wouldn’t land awkwardly on the filthy stone cobbles of the street and break his head open. Ears ringing dully, she could only blink her eyes to try to erase the massive splotches in her eyeballs as she tried to get her numb limbs to obey the commands of her mind, finally wriggling free from the Black Eagle’s weight. Laying Caspar’s head slowly to the ground, she twisted to her skinned knees to see the result of the Bolting spell.

The Gaspard Knight and his horse were a smoking ruin in the center of the street, and at least half of his company was dead or incapacitated, men strewn about from the epicenter of the magical strike. The rest looked as dazed as she felt, but that wouldn’t last. Annette sprang to her feet and ran to Knight Bronwyn, who was vainly trying to grab her sword and rise to her feet at the same time. She yelled with a voice she couldn’t hear, trying to urge the Knights to get up and attack. After several attempts, she thought she saw comprehension in the woman’s eyes. Leaving the Knight to her command, she hurried through the rain and rising bodies to where she had seen Constance.

The Nuvelle noblewoman was on her knees in the wet street, prodding the quarrel that had pierced her right shoulder like she couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Blood ran down from the wound, soaking her dress. Annette winced in sympathy. At least one of the archers had the presence of mind to fire without orders at the magician. Cursing herself over and over for slacking in her studies of white anima, she lifted Constance’s other arm over her neck to get her to her feet and to safety, dragging her away from the Central Church and Kingdom Knights as they surged forward to finish off their crippled foes.

Several of the grey uniformed men gathered around her, while others were running past her to help the Knights of Seiros. “Here, missus. We’ll take care of our own, see?” the leader said, not unkindly as they gently lifted the semiconscious Constance from her grasp. His voice sounded like it was underwater.

“She needs healing!” Annette tried to shout through the rain. “So does my friend.” She pointed to Caspar, lying very still on the side of the street where she had left him. “He’ll die without help. Can you help them?” she pleaded earnestly.

“The boss will be back soon, girlie,” nodded one of the rough men at her, moving to assist Caspar. “‘ey got the Goddess’ golden touch, that one. Let’s get ‘em inside and make ‘em comfortable.”

*

Flying high above Sylvain, Lorenz, and Ferdinand, Ingrid was able to witness Lonato’s army trying to get inside a certain inn on the main street of Garreg Mach Town. She also saw the wurm come up from the street and begin attacking everything within its range. The Gaspard soldiers trapped by the monster either fled or else were crushed by the wild revolutions as it ate its fill. But then the rain was falling, and a lightning bolt struck the town nearby. Snowmane bucked into a panic, and Ingrid nearly panicked as well, desperate to get her mount under control as it clawed up into the sky against her will, beating his wings wildly. As her stomach heaved against the rainswept wind, she looked beneath her again at the movements of Lonato’s army. She could only guess at their numbers, being dark smudges against the ground, but she guessed at most there were only fifteen companies left. His Highness could take on at least one by himself, and there should be a like number of monks and priests supporting them at the monastery gates. She turned her attention to flexing her legs and tugging on the reins to remind her mount of his training.

Eventually, Snowmane tired of beating his heavy wet wings, and Ingrid was able to get her mount to respond to her touch, gliding him back to the wurm. The monster was now attacking the inn itself in enraged abandon, trying to eat through the roof and get inside, its blind senses being driven by some incomprehensible force. Something told Ingrid that this monster had something to do with their friends, and she waved her lance down to Sylvain as she banked with Snowmane, then pointed to the inn. The Gauiter heir waved back with his own lance, and she saw the three nobleman turn their horses in the direction she had indicated. They reined in shortly when they saw the wurm, but Ingrid pointed with her lance again. She flew low enough to hear them discussing it, but couldn’t make out the words in the rainfall as Snowmane hovered restlessly in the air. This rainfall was going to make him tire quickly, and Ingrid reminded herself to be cognizant of her mount’s endurance in the fight. Soon, the three mounted nobles below her charged forward to engage the beast, even as Ingrid steered her pegasus to close on the monster’s head, her lance at the ready.

Lorenz reined his horse once in range and cast a fireball at the base of the monster’s coiled length, which did little more than get the monster’s attention in the rain. Hissing, the creature flexed its body after the large dark morsel it sensed, but Lorenz and his mount were already turned and galloping away in full flight down the middle of the street. Ferdinand and Sylvain then charged the flanks of the monster from opposite sides, their lances extended in full joust position.

As the wurm attempted to close on Lorenz, the two cadets’ horses smashed into its muscular length, their lances being deeply impaled in the creature’s torso. Sylvain’s horse lost its footing on the slick cobbles and fell at the impact, whinnying as it tried to regain its feet away from the monster. The red haired nobleman clung his lance, somehow kicking free of his stirrups before his legs were broken. The wurm reared back and roared in agony, its head screaming at the sky.

 _Perfect,_ thought Ingrid, coming in at just the right moment. She tapped Snowmane’s neck with her glove, her mount’s head obediently dipping low as she swung her lance above it, clipping the monster along its wide, alien jaw as they flew past. The hit staggered both her and her mount, jolting Ingrid down to her legs. Then she was behind the creature, Snowmane flapping to the open ground ahead of it, beating his wet wings in a hasty flurry of sprayed water. Ingrid twisted in her saddle to look as they both landed on the street.

Her heart soared to see Knights Byleth and Catherine charging the monster, running from the inn with their swords leading. Catherine leapt impossibly high into the air before coming down like a red streaked comet, impaling Thunderbrand deep with all of her armored weight into the monster’s back. It roared in a berzerk frenzy, as Ferdinand kept up the attack on the flank. The wurm’s head swung from side to side, the animal stupidly not knowing where to retaliate first. Byleth ran around the monster and sawed at the wound Sylvain’s lance had created, near the creature’s center of balance. Hilda and a large man also rushed the monster, axe and bladed gauntlets leading as they pounded into the wall of wide, rubbery flesh that loomed before them.

Sylvain staggered to his feet behind Knight Byleth, moving to help her attack, but the wurm’s maw finally swiveled to aim at them both. With a retching sound multiplied into vastness, it sucked in air to only expel a glob of drooling acid at the pair. With uncanny intuition, Knight Byleth had already abandoned her sword in the monster and dove towards Ingrid’s childhood friend, knocking his armoured weight away from the majority of the sticky spray. It boiled and hissed in the street cobbles, creating a hole in the earth despite the rain.

Ingrid snapped her reins in anger and surged forward on her mount, Snowmane kicking to the air once more. The wurm drooled for a moment more at that spot, when a renewed stab from Thunderbrand by Catherine regained its attention. It gyrated its segments, trying to bring its maw in line to bite the tiny thing hurting it. Catherine was left to clutch her impaled weapon for dear life, her legs flailing as she tried to ride out the storm of movement. Ingrid came in again at a good instant, pulling her reins and swinging her lance in another slash at the side of the monster’s head as it bent low. Sensing an easier target in the air, the maw spun to snap at the pegasus and its rider, but Snowmane was already gaining altitude, dancing through the sky and taking them out of reach. Ingrid circled him around for another pass as she watched the fight below.

Hilda was burying her axe in the monster’s side, next to a dismounted Ferdinand, when the large man next to them leapt up at the monster, his serrated gauntlets digging into its flesh. With a crazed grin Ingrid could see from the air, he began climbing the monster’s wet body like he was scaling a rock wall, leaving behind multiple stab wounds the streamed red-black blood. With a violent shudder that showed it was at last feeling pain, the wurm twisted and began to roll, hoping to crush the fleas biting it with its giant mass. After wrenching Thunderbrand free, Catherine was forced to leap clear, her armor clattering as she tumbled to the hard ground. The man sprang away as well, but his legs buckled beneath his weight as he landed on the slick street with a bellowing curse.

Coming on the head for a third time, Ingrid tapped her mounts neck in a specific pattern, watching the monster’s head carefully as it briefly sagged and heaved for what passed as breath for its kind. She held her lance straight up, braced by her side and saddle. As they closed above the head, she tapped Snowmane’s neck a final time, and her mount executed the maneuver, flying in a loop. The lance dug a wide gash into the head of the monster, even as the tip of her weapon bent and snapped. The wurm hissed in agony behind her, and briefly disoriented after the risky move, Ingrid pulled the reins and Snowmane bent down into another skidding landing to help them get their bearings.

As she wheeled her mount back, she saw the monster was definitely feeling it now, but so were most of the fighters. Knight Byleth was still disarmed, and she was busy tearing off her own white cloak, ripping up rain soaked strips to tie around Sylvain’s acid-splashed legs in the miniscule shelter of a doorway. Catherine was slow to get up from her fall from the wurm, limping hard but her sword still in her hands. The large brawler was being supported by Hilda, who was dragging his frame away from immediate danger, one of his legs bent unnaturally. Ferdinand and Lorenz and herself were the only ones still unhurt or not providing aid. But Knight Catherine fearlessly moved to attack again, and so did the other nobles. The wurm roared and snapped again at them in beastial defiance, but it was slowly growing weaker.

At that moment, two heads, one red, one brown, peeked out from the shattered doorway to the inn. The woman with flaming red hair brighter than Sylvain’s moved low and quickly to the other side of the street, her hands already moving in some sort of incantation. But Ingrid saw only the brunette. “Dorothea!” she yelled through the rain, waving her bloody lance, a stupid grin on her face to realize her friend was still safe and alive.

Dorothea turned to her voice, her face lighting up in a way that made her soul sing. “Ingrid!” cheered the songstress, racing excitedly towards her and Snowmane.

A mistake.

Somehow, the leviathan sensed something moving behind it. With roaring hiss, the creature spun its humongous length in an unnatural, violent motion, throwing Catherine and the others back. The bloody and serrated hole that served as the mouth dove at its target. Dorothea froze in the middle of the street, helpless before the sight of her own death rushing towards her.

 _No!_ Ingrid shouted to herself in terror. She spurred Snowmane forward, her broken lance leading.

*

“He’s making a direct charge on the gates,” muttered Professor Jeralt, standing high on the walls above the gates to Garreg Mach monastery. “Unbelievable.” Louder, he shouted, “Mages and heavies to front! Students as well! Make them pay for their mad stupidity!”

Edelgard and Hubert shifted forward with other mages and Knights on the rampart, with Edelgard setting her royal tower shield in front of Hubert with a rocking thump on the wet stone parapet. He was tall enough to cast over her head and shield, unlike Lysithea and Raphael. Something odd was going on between those two, if Hubert’s smirks and Lysithea’s sneering glares were any indication. She put them out of her mind, glancing further down the line to see Professor Jeralt set a bulky shield even more massive than her own in front of Professors Manuela and Hanneman. Nearby them, Dedue guarded Lady Beatrix.

Other monks and non-descript priests made ready to cast as well, and Edelgard tried to memorize faces through the rain, because some of these plain and unassuming men and women could be Cardinals, the secretive hierarchy of the Church and Rhea’s strongest followers and supporters. Then the roar of the fanatical men surging up the hill demanded her attention once more. 

This attack _was_ madness; madness nurtured out of twisting a dying man’s grief for his son, and madness born out of the Church of Seiros itself. Her uncle had always darkly insinuated he had “influence” in the Western Church. It made sense, since Arundel territory directly bordered Arianrhod and Gaspard and Rowe territory. That was the Imperial-Kingdom border established since House Rowe’s treachery four centuries earlier, when they seized the mighty fortress capital of Arianrhod for their own with barely a blade drawn. The Hresvelgs of the time were hardly in a position to object, since Emperor Siegfried von Hresvelg had fallen by then to Duke Kyphon in the Battle of Tailtean Plains. But straddled as they were between the faraway King in Fhirdiad and the much closer threat of the Imperial border, the nobles of Western Faerghus had always maintained a proud, independent streak, emboldened by their claim to an impregnable fortress-city that daunted both Blaiddyd Kings and Hresvelg Emperors alike. The Western Church adopted much of the same attitude, especially after the fall of the Southern Church a century before.

The Imperial Princess smirked to herself through her wet locks. The seeds of Rhea’s long years of tyranny and incompetence were bearing fruit, her unnatural longevity and egregious displays of power finally attracting the notice of the other poor deluded fools of the Faith of Seiros. No wonder “Lord Arundel” had such pull with them, with his own stores of secret, ancient knowledge. The Church of Seiros was all but ready to collapse. It just needed a nudge.

She would be that nudge.

As for the coming battle, it was merely another opportunity to prove her points with Dimitri and Claude. A Church divided against itself, that inflamed both noble and peasant into useless, worthless rebellion, could not stand as a beacon of truth and morality for the nations of Fodlan. Arudnel and his freaks may have their own reasons for this plot, but she would twist it to her own ends. The deadly game of their alliance of convenience would continue.

A voice shook her from her calculating thoughts. “Captain!” called Lady Beatrix. “They’re in range for me!”

“For me as well, Professor,” Lysithea automatically said, her red eyes grimly focused below. She had floated up to a spot to where she could aim above Raphael’s broad shoulders.

“Give us your order, Captain Jeralt,” said Hanneman, his monocle abandoned in the misting rain, but his hands up and ready to cast in an instant.

Edelgard noted that Jeralt waited another few heartbeats, then roared in a shout all could hear. “Now! Cast at will!”

Hubert cackled in glee behind her, delighted to show off his hard-earned powers. She smiled in indulgence as she peered through the custom made slot in her shield, a specialized peephole that gave her visibility without sacrificing protection.

The view did not disappoint.

Black smoke twisted from the earth, dragging men down in chains that made them shriek in agony. Thunder and lightning twisted bodies, ice froze limbs and made men and horses fall alike, and lurid red fireballs illuminated the scene as the mages and monks of Garreg Mach opened up. Through the detonations, the Gaspard men kept coming, crawling over the bodies of their own fallen like men possessed. Even Edelgard, the Flame Emperor, felt her blood turn to ice at the sight. Such horrors could not be expressed in words. Limbs, heads, and even individual organs, separated from their owners, flew through the rain to land noiselessly amidst the sounds of even more death and pain. The mud of the monastery road turned bright red.

Arrows flew into targets as well, as Claude, Bernadetta, Ignatz, Petra and Leonie opened up, along with other students and monks. Ashe joined them, tears streaming from his eyes as he aimed and fired with his classmates. Leading the group, Shamir stood fearlessly upon the edge of the parapet, killing with her bow again and again, daring the enemy to strike her in return. Edelgard was in awe of such reckless behavior, but then she noticed the Dagdan woman was only speeding up as she killed, her hands and arms a blur between her bow and quiver as they delivered death, outpacing even the Crest-bearing archery students. Hubert had told Edelgard privately that Shamir was the only Knight of Seiros that he feared. Now she could see why, as another unerring black fletched arrow in the style of Dagda buried itself into the neck of a hapless infantryman.

Some Gaspard arrows flew up feebly to their high position on the walls, bouncing off stone and steel, hardly finding a target. Edelgard shook her head at the waste. The attacking fools had no ladders, no grappling hooks. No means of scaling the three stories of rain-slick stone before them. They could do nothing but die outside the monastery’s high walls. What was the point of such fanaticism? Why did they throw their lives away so carelessly? What could possibly give Lonato such irrational confidence…?

A chill invaded her through her armor as a suspicion stole through her. Nessas had been sent with her on the initial bandit attack with Kostas, but she had only been able to discover the fact through the diligent efforts of Hubert. She did not want to reveal her intentions concerning them too soon, not until her own campaign against the Church was well underway. But what if Lonato was receiving similar aid? Of course her Lord Uncle would not tell her. Of course he would not worry about the risk to herself or her classmates. He would laugh and probably call it another ‘test’ for the Flame Emperor.

And not just a test of her. Of course they were also testing Byleth. Doubtless either Linhardt or Caspar had told someone of her Crest; it had been weeks since the mock battle, hadn’t it? And she could imagine the intense interest _they_ would have in a mystery noblewoman posing as a mercenary. One connected intimately with Rhea and the Knights of Seiros. It was inevitable that they would set a trap for her through their unwitting catspaws, just so they could bind her friend tight with chains and drag her off into darkness while they congratulated themselves on such a fine catch. Then would come the flensing knives and lancets and vials as they sought to distill their new Crest. Edelgard swallowed her gorge with an effort at her wild thoughts. No, likely not yet. They were just probing. Gauging for weaknesses. An experiment, as they liked to say about such things.

If that was what you called throwing away thousands of human lives.

Suddenly, Lonato’s attack took on a new urgency, and the image of the Church fighting amongst itself lost its pleasurable taste. There was real danger here, but she could not tell any of the Knights or Professors. Too much would be given away about how Edelgard had come by such knowledge. A quick glance in Dimitri’s direction showed the tall Prince with a javelin in his hand, with his face so haunted his eyes were unblinking in a fixed stare. He was distracted. Good. Shamir was hopping from the parapet, directing Claude and the other archery units to shift their fields of fire. This might be her only chance.

Hubert was pausing for air behind her after yet another deadly cast of black magic. “Hubert,” she whispered roughly behind her. “Do you see Lonato? Are any of _them_ with him?”

Her retainer sucked in his breath, immediately alerted to the danger, scanning the field. He then leaned down and pointed by her ear. “There. Slightly to the right. I...do not see any masks. But he is approaching the gate on horseback--and that spear--I cannot tell from this distance, my Lady, but it does not appear to be traditionally made. It may be one of their weapons.”

Unfortunately, Professor Jeralt took that moment to also see Hubert’s finger, and saw the proud grey Lord advancing slowly through the rain, his strange weapon brandished above his head like a banner, his most loyal men marching faithfully in his wake. “Lysithea!” he called out, misinterpreting Hubert’s gesture. “There’s Lonato! Can you take him out?”

“Gladly,” grinned the floating girl, tossing her wet white strands at Hubert. “Pay attention. You might actually learn some magic,” she bragged to him. Her white hands waved in mystical gestures. Black runes and sigils radiated in front of her, and Raphael unconsciously leaned forward, uncomfortable with the sensations at his back as Lysithea chanted.

Edelgard was startled to feel Hubert’s arm under her elbow, dragging her away from the girl. He could barely move her in her armor, yet he was attempting to do so just the same. “Hubert!” she said crossly in reprimand. She wanted to witness this.

“Lady Edelgard, we must move,” he whispered harshly at her, and Edelgard nearly dropped her shield as her eyes widened. Hubert looked...terrified, and it made his sinister face appear only more unattractive. “She is using one of _their_ spells against Lonato. He has one of _their_ weapons. I have no idea what the results may be!” he snarled, as they bumped into Dimitri and Claude on the crowded wall. Both other royal heirs looked at them in surprise, with only Claude managing a “What is going on--?”

Lysithea finished her incantation and brought her hands together.

*

Dorothea felt her arms and knees skinned from the impact on the ground. She had been clipped by the wing of the pegasus. She gasped and tried to rise, trying to ignore the ache in her bones. Ingrid had saved her. She had come to rescue her.

She heard the screaming crash just as it happened. Dorothea looked up in horror as the red-white ruin of Ingrid’s bitten pegasus sailed through the air, her blonde friend still helplessly tied to the saddle like a doll. She cracked hard into the street, her mount on top of her, both laying in a puddle and they did not move.

A wave of expelled sulfuric gases and a roar forced Dorothea’s attention forward. Ingrid’s lance was impaled in the monster’s beak-like jaw clean through, and the wurm was down, unable to rise despite numerous, thrashing attempts to do so.

Ingrid had saved her. Her. Dorothea Arnault, who had made up her last name because she couldn’t remember her original one, taking it from the signs of a wealthy merchant in Enbarr. She had liked the sound of it. It made her feel special and important in her youth, in between wondering where she would eat food again or wondering what she would be forced to do to earn the privilege of food.

She looked back behind her. Ingrid still wasn’t moving, her broken pegasus on top of her, her mount’s black eyes still wide and white in death.

What was the name of Ingrid’s mount? Such an pointless, useless question, but it seemed absurdly important to Dorothea now. Snowmane. That was it. _Snowmane._ A ridiculous, audacious, fantastical name, taken from an old king’s mount in another legendary fable. The old king and his mount had died, but the kingdom had lived and the battle was won. Ingrid could tell a story with the best of them, and Dorothea remembered smiling indulgently as she had listened to her friend as they sat on the monastery stairs, just admiring the noblewoman’s passion. She was such a _kid_ sometimes, but she loved that about Ingrid. Had. Had loved that.

Dorothea didn’t feel like a kingdom. She didn’t even feel like a person. Ingrid had protected that. The thought of someone so beautiful and perfect and naive and charming and noble and sweet dying for a street rat from the alleys of Enbarr made something vast rise up inside of her, something dark and red and powerful that she could feel the magic, burning her throat, her head, demanding release. She glared at the wurm, the damned dead thing that didn’t know it was dead, still trying to lunge forward and bite at her despite Catherine and Hilda and Ferdie and Lorenz and others attacking it.

“I hate you,” she hissed, tasting the salt from her face. Was she crying? She didn’t remember starting to cry. Absurd details. Pointless. She thrust a palm out, feeling the anima coalesce there, coming faster and easier than it ever had in her entire life. “I HATE YOU!” she screamed, in the face of the wurm’s blind, alien, disgusting face. It opened its mouth to roar at her.

She cast Thoron down the monster’s throat.

_Detonation._

Dorothea blinked from where she had been tossed back to the ground a second time. Her elbows and tailbone felt broken. She twisted to get up anyway, scraping the fragments of stinking meat away from her face and arms. A single glance was all she needed to know that the wurm was truly, finally, damnably dead. She rose shakily to her feet, turning from the smoking thing behind her to at last to face what she dreaded. Ingrid’s dead green eyes, her face angry and accusing as she stared vacantly skyward. She did not want to face those eyes, full of hate for what she was, staring through her and stripping her to her soul. _I died for you, you worthless trash. Me, a noble Knight of the Kingdom destined for great deeds. If you hadn’t whored yourself out to come to Garreg Mach monastery, hoping to lock your legs around the first noble who was willing to put up with you, I’d still be alive._

She stumbled through the ruins of the broken street, coming up at last to the fallen pegasus. As she feared, Ingrid was staring at the sky, her blonde ponytail undone in the cobbles like cloth covering a bier, but Dorothea almost fainted when the green eyes swiveled towards her presence. “‘Thea,” smiled Ingrid, her mouth a bloody smear. “Can you get me out?”

“Ingrid!” screamed Dorothea in horror and relief, falling to her knees beside her friend. She ripped at the saddlestraps, trying to get them off as quickly and carefully as possible. She winced and her throat constricted as she felt the squishy bend of Ingrid’s swollen body against her fingers. She managed a sob. “You--you’re alive!”

“Not for long,” said the noblewoman. “I think I’m dying.” Her breath was coming in labored wheezes. She must be in horrible, excruciating pain, but she said that as if she was asking Dorothea to pass the butter at breakfast. She seemed perversely pleased with herself.

Stamping feet were coming up beside her, along with a sobbing groan from Sylvain as he said Ingrid’s name. Dorothea was pushed by an arm to kneel by Ingrid’s head, gripping her arms. She heard Knight Byleth giving orders.

“Lorenz, Ferdinand, grab the hooves…I’ll get the tail...Catherine the neck…”

Dorothea’s numb mind finally grasped her role. As one, the Knights and nobles lifted the pegasus corpse away, and the songstress leaned back to drag Ingrid’s leg from under the animal’s body, Sylvain bending down and releasing it from the remaining stirrup. What remained of her leg. It was a twisted red and white mass, with muscle and bone mashed into incomprehensible shapes. Blood was everywhere, mixing with the rainwater. She stared at it. She couldn’t stop staring at it. This was because of her.

Sylvain was beside himself at the sight, falling to his bandaged knees next to Ingrid and grasping her hand with both of his own. “Oh Goddess, Ingrid. No! No, no no, no, Goddess fuck no! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”

“Not fucking you, Sylvain, get over it,” whispered Ingrid at him. She accepted his white knuckled grip in a pale hand. “It’s ok. Can’t feel them anyway. Like they’re not even there. It’s ok.”

“Ingrid...not you too…” he whispered back, his face raw and open for once in his life. “You can’t leave me. I’ll get in trouble. Don’t let me get in trouble. You have to keep me out of trouble, Ingrid,” he pleaded childishly in a broken voice.

“Sylvain…” whispered Ingrid distractedly, her eyes starting to stare past him. “I did it. I became like him. I protected the person I cared about. Just like a Knight.” She was fading away, but that statement almost broke Dorothea into pieces.

No. She wasn’t going to fall to pieces, like Sylvain. She could still act. She could still cast. Maybe she could stabilize Ingrid, at least. Stop the bleeding, until help arrives. Beyond modesty, she ripped off her wet uniform jacket, leaving her only in her bra, wrapping it around and tying the sleeves tight over Ingrid’s wide, swollen thigh, as high as she could manage. Her skill in white anima was negligible, having only learned the bare minimum from Manuela to heal a cuticle on a fingernail or smooth a blemish or a scar away from her skin. But maybe the Goddess she didn’t believe in, couldn’t believe in, would at least grant her this miracle.

She knelt by Ingrid’s broken hips, shaking hands hovering over her ruined right leg. White light sputtered briefly into her palms, extending into the injury below. The femoral artery. She had to find that, close it or repair it, if she could. Ingrid was dying before her eyes.

“Dorothea,” mumbled Ingrid up at her, her eyes closed. “S’ok…” Her hand fell limp in her childhood friend’s grasp.

Sylvain looked at her, but she ignored him, trying to channel her energy in a way it didn’t want to be channelled, trying to force her black anima into white. “Dorothea, you can’t...you’re not...wait...where’s Mercie? Where is she?! She’s not…” he stammered.

“She’s unconscious,” muttered Dorothea, feeling stupid and worthless and useless. Not like Mercedes. People could depend on kind Mercedes. But not now. “She burnt herself up already inside the inn. She’s tapped out.”

“No! There has to be...someone…around.” Sylvain looked wildly up to the sad faces of Ferdinand and Lorenz and Catherine. Hilda was shaking her head at Sylvain, beginning to cry. “Where is she? I can wake her up. She’ll pull it off. She has to. She has to…” he chanted like a prayer as he moved to the inn, ignoring his wounded legs almost buckling beneath him.

Lorenz and Ferdie stood above her. Ferdie was saying something, laying a gentle mailed hand on her shoulder. She ignored them.

Catherine slowly clanked to one knee, Thunderbrand pointed down before her as she bowed her head on it. She was saying the Goddess’ prayer. The Prayer of Saint Seiros. She ignored that, too.

White light flickered fitfully in her hands. She could try. She had to try.

Hilda was crying. Somewhere. Dorothea heard the sobs, at least, noting them like all the other inconsequential details. Her wet hair on her bare shoulders and back. Her skinned, bleeding elbows. Ingrid’s pale beautiful face, growing paler than marble, the lips turning blue. She focused on her hands. And on the injury. Letting her faith and spirit flow into the wound, seeking to make it right again, as whole and natural as the Goddess had made it.

Knight Byleth was talking to herself a short distance away. She sounded angry. Maybe the grief was driving her mad. Dorothea could understand that.

Rhythmic thumping. Dorothea briefly looked up at that unusual sound. Hapi facing away from them, punching a wall. Her fists were bleeding, her shoulders hunched. Dorothea felt an irrational tide of red anger sweep over her, hating the Abyss woman for what she did, for what she had caused. Did she even realize what she had done?

Hapi kept punching the stone, ignoring the damage to her hands. She didn’t look at their group; she was so tense she was trembling tightly like a wound spring. Blood dripped through the rain. Dorothea felt her anger ease. She knew. She didn’t want this to happen. She probably hated herself as much as Dorothea did right now. Dorothea could understand that, as well. She bent her head back down to try to help her Ingrid a few more times.

A few more tries. Before it was over.

Slowly, she became aware of the white mailed form kneeling on Ingrid’s other side. Knight Byleth’s blue head leaned next to hers. She smelled like blood and rust. “Let me help,” she whispered.

Dorothea blinked the tears from her eyes. The white light from her hands was so dim as to be nonexistent, and Ingrid was still bleeding everywhere, with shards of splintered bone tearing her precious skin. Her efforts had barely closed a vessel. Ingrid’s chest was barely rising now. And now the naive simple farm girl-turned-mercenary from Remire wanted to help her. This. This was breaking her. Dorothea had never seen her cast magic, and she never said she held the slightest interest in magic. She had told this to all of the Black Eagles herself.

Scarred, calloused, wet hands laid roughly over her own. Byleth had taken off her gloves. “Tell me what to do,” she commanded.

Dorothea focused past herself, past her tears. This may be Ingrid’s final chance, and she would take it, if only to be able to look at herself in a mirror ever again. She explained it as Manuela had told her so long ago. Composing her voice to firmness, she said, “First, bring your energy to your fingertips. Affirm your faith in the Goddess, and submit yourself to her will, her power. Then let the energy flow between yourself and the person you’re healing. All living things are connected. You’re just being the bridge for that energy.”

Slowly, the glow in her hands was brightening, and Dorothea stared at them, feeling the first stirring of hope. There were legends of simple wise women and cunning men who could practice white anima through untrained talent, or the latent power of Crest-bearing blood. Was Knight Byleth such a case? She could feel the magic flow through her from this woman, as easily as if Professor Manuela was kneeling along with her. 

Even so, she couldn’t help but cry out when both her hands and Byleth’s own erupted into white flame, shining silver and casting rainbows through the raindrops. Dorothea briefly panicked at the strange sight, but the silver flames didn’t burn. They felt...good. The aches in her limbs vanished. Byleth’s eyes were closed but she nodded for Dorothea to continue, even as she trembled through the unfamiliar effort.

Swallowing hard without breath, Dorothea stammered, “Ignore the injury or disease, and focus on the person now. Imagine them in life, or doing something they enjoy if it helps. Channel the energy tightly into that image.” The silver fire flared brighter. Dorothea forced her voice to continue, and forced her awe and gratitude and confusion and everything else aside. This was all for Ingrid. “All things have their proper place. Blood, muscle, bone. Nerves, the mind, the spirit. Let the Goddess put them back in their intended position, in the form she created. The way she made them to be. Your spirit is the bridge for her power.”

Byleth nodded again, and the world flared white, all of it coming from her hands. Dorothea didn’t close her eyes, focusing on Ingrid’s shattered legs and pelvis beneath her. She forced herself to watch.

It was disgusting, but fascinating. Dorothea had seen white anima healing before, but not at this scale. Not this _fast._ Ingrid’s legs straightened, the bone sliding into place beneath the skin that mercifully closed soon after it, the swelling reducing in seconds. She heard a pop from Ingrid’s hip as the joints slid back into place, rotating the thighs slightly. Most astonishing of all was blood flowing from the street back into someplace behind Ingrid’s chiseled knee, bright and red and with not a speck of dirt or filth in it. She had never seen that happen, not even from Professor Manuela.

“Goddess save my unworthy soul,” murmured Lorenz in awe somewhere behind her.

The silver flame flicked and the light from Bylie’s hands dimmed. Then went out. Byleth opened her eyes and leaned back from Ingrid, breathing hard.

Dorothea stared at her in open-mouthed amazement. Catherine was standing up in confusion, looking back and forth between Byleth and Ingrid, in between checking her own body. Hapi stood behind her, looking at her healed hands like they weren’t attached to her arms. Running steps announced the arrival of Sylvain, Mercedes, and the man Hilda had called Baltie, with both men looking at their legs in wonder. Hilda was already demanding to know just what the hell they had just seen from Ferdinand and Lorenz.

The Knight hadn’t just healed Ingrid. She had healed _everyone in the vicinity_. Without training. With hardly any effort.

“Dorothea,” said a faint voice below her. It sounded cross. She looked down.

She couldn’t answer her sweet Ingrid past the tears that clouded her eyes, overcome by the joy of seeing those lively green orbs on her once again. Ingrid was pale and weak, but she was _alive_ , and Dorothea had never been so glad for that handsome and adorable scowl as it looked up at her now. She had asked the Goddess for a miracle, hadn’t she? She didn’t know _what_ she was feeling at this moment, but she said thank you inside of herself anyway. She had never felt anything so strongly in her life.

“Yes, my Ingrid?” she gasped, unable to hide a sob behind her wide smile.

Ingrid hissed at her from the ground. “Why are you leaning over me in just...your...your bra?” she spluttered. “It’s improper! Everyone can see you!”

Oh Goddess, that was Ingrid. A lecture about propriety after coming back from the grave. Dorothea swept her up in a hug, delighted beyond words, but somehow she found her voice. “Oh Ingrid. Thank the Goddess. You’re safe. You saved me.”

“Snowmane…” Ingrid mourned as she saw her mount, her strong arms gripping her shoulders, uncertain of where to put her hands. They somehow settled on Dorothea’s triceps. 

Dorothea buried her face in Ingrid’s wet and dirty long hair. “It’s ok, Ingrid. You were so brave. You saved my life. Just like a Knight,” she murmured. “Just like a Knight.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Next chapter is almost done, and writing was hard for a bit but now is becoming easier.
> 
> Everyone gets buffs! Heroes, villains, it does not matter. DM Wheaties for all PCs and NPCs! We die like the proud munchkins we are!
> 
> 200,000 words into this monster, and I'm on chapter 3 in WC? Sothis save my unworthy soul. Sounds like my Maddening runs.


	26. War's First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They went with songs to the battle, they were young,  
> Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.  
> They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;  
> They fell with their faces to the foe.
> 
> They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
> Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
> At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
> We will remember them.
> 
> \--
> 
> Binyon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN/TW: Sexual assault, scenes of graphic violence/gore

Ch 26

War’s First Kiss

Marianne wasn’t sure what had happened.

She had been standing near the narrow stone stairs in the monastery gatehouse, ready to aid in healing when necessary with some of the Sisters of Saint Cethleann. She had brought her sword and breastplate, but couldn’t find her arm guards or greaves in time for the muster. Lady Beatrix and Captain Jeralt ordered to aid with healing, anyway. At least Lady Beatrix gave a calming smile to her earlier, but Professor Jeralt was gruffer than ever. It made Marianne tense up even more before her first real battle. Battle was frightening, she thought to herself over and over. It was confusing. She didn’t like a lot of things at the monastery, but she knew she disliked the screams and sounds she was hearing beyond the stone wall. She even heard horses crying out in misery, and it made her heart weep for the poor creatures. The world was so cruel, and they didn’t understand or want to be there, but they were forced to die such needless deaths anyway.

Then the really confusing things started happening.

It had started when she heard Lysithea’s voice, high pitched in panic. “--Professor...I don’t know how--but he absorbed my spell!”

Another voice, perhaps Professor Manuela’s. “--what _is_ that thing? A weapon?”

“Not a Relic, surely not--! Lonato Gaspard doesn’t have the Crest neccesary--” Professor Hanneman’s.

Then suddenly cries of terror coming from outside. Professor Jeralt was shouting orders to run, and there was a shaky, screaming spell being cast by Lady Beatrix. Everyone was charging down the stairs, pushing everyone aside, sliding down ladders. Some even jumped from unsafe heights.

The explosion blew the monastery gates and portcullis wide open. The stones of the gatehouse cracked ominously, grinding so loud she could almost feel the noise in her bones. Dust billowed everywhere, making her choke before being swallowed up by the rain.

Marianne felt bruised despite her breastplate, carried by the crowd of armed and armored bodies down the stairs to the ground floor of the gatehouse. A knot of Sisters surrounded her, their kind faces looking as confused and frightened as her own. Everyone was jammed too close together, and it was becoming hard to inhale for a full chest of air.

Twisting her body, trying to make space with her elbows, she turned and blinked to realize Claude’s face was inches from her own, his easy smile gone, his brow creased in worry. He nodded down to her as they were jammed closer together, their noses almost touching. “Marianne. Might want to head back upstairs. It should be safer,” he suggested distractedly, his eyes darting around.

She turned a trusting regard to Claude. Her House Leader was smart and strong. He would know what was going on. “What happened?”

“Lonato...used something. Something magical. Something like a Relic. His men are coming through...NOW! Raphael!” Claude shouted at the end, pointing at the closest doorway.

Men in unfamiliar white tabards and armor were trying to enter the crowded gatehouse stairwell, thrusting swords and lances into the milling bodies. Shrieks of pain rose up as the monks closest to the doors were impaled. Marianne gasped as the wall she thought she was leaning against wasn’t in fact a wall. Lifting her aside easily with just his right hand, Raphael turned and pushed her gently back up the stairway, meaning Marianne was thrown hard against the stone stairs. Getting to her bruised hands and knees and looking behind her, she saw the armored bulk of her large classmate barrelling into the doorway, and soon the majority of the strange soldiers were cursing as their strikes glanced off the big man’s shield and armor. More strange men were entering from the second stone arch, however, and Marianne wept in horror as they began attacking the nuns, screaming blasphemous obscenities at them, calling these holy women apostates. _Why such cruelty? It didn’t make SENSE…_ Claude and Leonie jumped forward and thrust their belt knives at them, their shorter blades easier to maneuver in the chaotic dark press.

Marianne stood on the steps, trying to cast healing before anyone actually died. She managed to save three of the Sisters, but she couldn’t do anything when Mother Cecilia fell, a sword piercing her heart before Claude stabbed the attacking soldier in the eye. The sword was left stuck in her flesh, and Marianne couldn’t heal her enough before she was gone.

_Why?_

It started to make her angry at the waste. The injustice of it all. She didn’t like feeling angry. She knew the Goddess disliked her feeling angry. Such feelings...such dark urges...might accidentally activate her Crest. She mumbled a hasty prayer of forgiveness to the Goddess as she sucked another soldier’s life force from his body, his skin turning a pasty grey pallor as he dropped his weapon, allowing Leonie to cut his throat. The floor was wet with more than rainwater, now.

“Marianne!” Claude shouted in alarm. She looked up from her casting.

A soldier had squirmed past Raphael while he was pressed on his shield side. The man rushed at her up the stairs, his pockmarked face leering and his eyes like two beady pinpoints. The sabre he wielded reared back for a blow, looming over her skull. She froze before the sight, unable to cast a spell or draw her sword, realizing the Goddess was granting her long prayed-for wish, but her mind shook to realize now she didn’t want it. She didn’t! There was still so much left she wanted to do--!

The sabre started to fall.

A scuffing noise behind her, with a roaring shout. “ENOUGH!” Something flew past her head with hurricane force.

The saber clattered to the stone, and the man attacking her was suddenly hanging on the far wall, impaled by a javelin into the stone wall above everyone’s heads below. He twitched several times, looking at her with wide, imploring eyes that were soon frozen in disbelief, blood trickling from his mouth and the gaping wound in his ribcage. It dripped down past his suspended legs to the floor.

Prince Dimitri brushed past her. It was hard to tell who was trembling more between the two of them.

A wordless cry of pain from Leonie diverted their attention. Her knife clattered to the ground as a sword slipped past her parry, slicing her forearm open. She snarled at her opponent and pressed close, kneeing him in the crotch, fighting for the blade trying to end her life. They fell back on the piles of bodies and blood, locking into a clinch. Claude and Raphael couldn’t help her, being occupied holding the doorways against the invading mob.

Dimitri leapt down from the stairway, nimbly landing on his feet with effortless ease. He grabbed the helmet of the soldier on top of Leonie. And pulled, his shoulders flexing backwards.

A cracking sound as the soldier briefly thrashed in panic. Then fell limp. Dimitri kept pulling. A squelching rip. The head came free from the body, veins and vertebrae dangling.

Sputtering and choking from Leonie as she desperately wiped at the gushing blood covering her face. Dimitri turned with his projectile and hurled it with unerring accuracy over Claude’s head, knocking out his current foe before advancing behind the Riegan nobleman. The rest of the Gaspard mob, having witnessed the macabre sight of their Prince beheading a man with just his fingers, screamed and fled to search for more helpless foemen.

A lull in the battle came after Raphael dispatched his last enemy with his cestus, and with the others fleeing elsewhere, soon there were no sounds but heavy breathing in the gatehouse.

Leonie sat up with effort, pushing the headless body off of herself. She looked dazed. “That was really gross,” she muttered, her entire face and hair painted red and spitting blood out of her mouth. Marianne calmed herself enough to remember to hurry beside her and heal her arm, but glanced in concern at the Prince in the meantime. They were all doing so, even the nuns, who still cowered in a corner away from the carnage.

Raphael clanked the beaver of his helmet open, a frown marring his normally smiling face. “Hey, Dimitri, buddy? You okay?”

Dimitri was staring down at the dead body of Mother Cecelia, his body now trembling so hard it was almost convulsing. His blonde head shook in denial. “My fault,” he muttered in a broken voice.

Marianne felt her heart ache at his words, but she was surprised to see her House Leader approach the Prince with a face that was almost tender, despite the cut dripping blood into his eye. She had never before seen that expression on Claude. “No. This is on Lonato. Not you. Not Ashe. Lonato did this,” he said firmly to Dimitri’s averted face.

“You don’t understand,” said Dimitri despairingly, but with enough force that Claude stepped back. “I should have defied my uncle. I should be the King of Faerghus. I would have _never_ let this happen. My father...I would have stopped this…” he trailed off.

Claude stubbornly persisted, and said, “Dimitri...even as a King, you can’t control everything. There’s other people in this world. They have their thoughts, dreams, and schemes too. I know it can be bad. I know it can be horrible. I know it can be _evil_. But what they do to others is _not your fault_.”

Dimtir burst out with a sound that was between a growl and sob. “Then what _good_ are we, Claude? We have this power...this strength...this heritage, that we didn’t ask for, we didn’t want!” he pleaded to all of them in a shout, looking at his red stained mailed gloves before continuing. “If we cannot protect the innocent, if we cannot protect the defenseless, then what are we _doing_ in life _?_ What _good_ are we _?_

“Dimitri...you’re good.” The words came out of her mouth before she knew what was happening.

She flushed as everyone regarded her, but she sought the blue eyes of the Prince. She tried to be assertive before them. Confident. Instead, she whispered with her face downcast, “You’re...the kindest man I know.”

A long silence greeted her words. Accompanied by stenches, as the bowels of the bodies around them relaxed in death.

Leonie began laughing hysterically through her blood stained face. Claude and Raphael managed hesitant chuckles, still giddy from adrenaline from battle, but all mirth stopped as Dimitri gazed up at them. Marrianne felt her soul ache at the pain and grief locked behind his eyes and face, but she also saw terrible confusion and hurt. He was nothing more than a scared boy in an inconceivably strong man’s body, she realized. She wanted to touch his gauntleted hand, to reassure him, but they were still dripping with blood and...other things. 

“Your Highness, I think you’re both right,” said a new voice. Ashe descended the stone stairs, his wounded side trailing blood as he leaned hard against the wall. He was pale and haggard, his face sunken from many missed meals, but his eyes gleamed with determination.

“Ashe!” cried out the Prince. He bounded up the steps to allow the younger man to lean on him.

The Gaspard heir stumbled at the bottom step, and Dimitri moved to allow her access to the dark growing stain in Ashe’s side, gripping the boy up gently with his gory hands. Marianne laid her hands across Ashe’s side, gasping as she discovered the extent of his injuries. She had to pray to the Goddess very strongly before any color returned to his cheeks. It weakened her greatly, but she was glad to do it, especially for Ashe, who had suffered so much because of her curse...but also because of his stepfather, she had to acknowledge. The contradictory thought left her even more confused. Her actions roused the living nuns as they moved among survivors, checking wounds and healing them as best they could in the short time they had. Fighting still raged outside, and Marianne could hear the painful noises of combat ringing in the stairwell above them.

Ashe gasped as she wordlessly finished his healing. “I’m sorry for being such a bother, Marianne. They’re fighting on the walls...there were people I recognized…”

“I’m sorry, Ashe...forgive me,” murmured Dimitri in a halting tone that only Marianne could hear. “The things I said to you…”

“I know, Your Highness,” Ashe muttered, holding onto his Prince. “But it’s our job now. Not the Knights of Seiros. We have to make this right.”

*

He had been right.

The explosion should have killed him. Lethal projectiles of stone and metal flew everywhere. The smoke still obscured the top of the main gatehouse despite the rainfall. All three Professors of Garreg Mach should be dead, along with Lady Beatrix and the Duscarman. Perhaps Lysithea and others as well.

A heavy metallic weight was on top of him. Lady Edelgard had shielded him with her armored body. He felt immediate shame. “Forgive me, Lady Edelgard,” he said with a grunt.

“Hubert. Attend me,” she ordered, without emotion, without reprimand. If she was wounded, she did not show it.

He instantly became alert as she rose from him. She turned and swung her steel battleaxe in a single motion, driving it past the guard and into the chest of an attacking Gaspard soldier. He rose to his knees, feeling a presence behind him. He had only time for a weak Miasma spell, but it was enough to make the offending militiaman tumble from the broken stone of the high wall, screaming as he fell.

His trained mind assessed the situation. It was dire. To his surprise, Professor Jeralt was still alive and fighting, his lance slicing through the wet air, but Beatrix, Hanneman, and Manuela were all down. The Duscarman was pinned by debris from the stone wall, but remarkably, he was still able to defend himself, even from a sitting position. There was no way to tell if the Professors were alive through the rain. He noted the grappling hooks of the rope ladders, anchored firmly to the parapets of the far wall of the monastery. Lonato had prepared for this. So then. A deliberate stratagem, to sacrifice his men in a frontal charge to allow him to get close enough to use a forbidden weapon to gain ingress. Then the ladders would come forth. An ingenious plan. Far too ingenious and resourceful for a western Kingdom noble, supposedly crippled with grief.

Looking around, he saw Knight Shamir was unconscious or dead against the monastery wall of the shattered parapet. He cast a Banshee to clear the Gaspard militia surrounding her, the men falling without a sound as their hearts stopped in unison, then ran to her side to check her vitals.

She was alive. A brief moment of consideration. He had a dagger in his left jacket sleeve. He had three, if you counted his boots. A swift thrust into the left armpit, and the Knights of Seiros would be down a valuable asset. The sudden beat of heavy wings overhead made him dismiss the notion. Abbot Seteth was now here, with his team of elite wyvern riders wielding long handled axes and lances. The beasts roared as their long necks snaked down when they arrived amongst the ramparts, biting the heads and torsos of the strange-smelling men as they alternately landed or hovered above the monastery wall. The Abbot leapt from his own large mount to attend the fallen Professors and Dedue.

Hubert reached into a pocket and pulled out a Vulnerary potion, uncorking it and forcing the thick blue liquid into Shamir’s mouth. Rubbing the nerves behind the woman’s ear to make the unconscious foreigner swallow, he nodded as her contusions faded and her breathing became stronger. Her eyelids fluttered as she stirred.

“Hubert!”

He swung his dark head to Lady Edelgard’s call, but she was pointing her axe behind him, even as two Faerghus Knights battered at her shield. Her lilac eyes quickly reproved him for hesitating in concern, even as she renewed her offensive. He reluctantly turned to see a gang of Gaspard men dragging an struggling Lysithea by her hair into the corner tower of the monastery. Fallen monks and nuns lay all around them, their bloodstained white robes making them appear like crushed flowers. Some of the soldiers were already unbuckling belts and removing armor. He understands his mistress’ call at once.

Hubert leaned into a sprint through the pouring rain. Even so, Lysithea screams before he can get there. Fear and outrage, certainly, but also...recognition. Realization.

Dark magic came easily to his lips, his hands already summoning the power necessary. 

He burst into the small walltower and the men whirled to face him. Two of them were holding a struggling small figure down. One leaned above it, holding a long bladed knife, his codpiece undone. He turned and bared his stained teeth at Hubert, his gaze dismissively scorning the fact the Black Eagle cadet wasn’t armed. “Wait your turn, boy,” the man grinned ferally through a dirty, dripping beard.

Life was too precious a gift for such filth, the nobleman decided. “Die,” Hubert snarled, levelling a pale finger at the creature, casting the strongest spell he knew.

The men screamed in horror as their leader withered and shrank, becoming a dessicated corpse in the blink of an eye. The newly created mummy toppled to the ground in a limp pile of bones with a wave of gravestench. Unfortunately, they did not run in fear at the display as the Imperial noble had hoped.

“Another heathen magicker!” “Kill him!” “For the Goddess!” The fanatical mob charged.

He managed to down two more with a Miasma, but the rush overwhelmed him. A sword dug into his ribcage, and he twisted backwards and away into the open air of the parapet, preventing the wound from becoming fatal. Lysithea screamed again, out of his field of sight. He had done nothing more than to come die by her side. Flexing his left wrist, he drew his hidden silver dagger and slashed at the face of the closest Gaspard serf, slicing the man’s cheeks and lips apart and making the man breathe blood. The wounded man dropped his weapon and collapsed, trying to scream, but the others came on behind him.

Somehow he was on his back, the wet stones digging painfully into his spine. He had always neglected the physical side of his studies. It looked as if it was to be undoing, as a reeking brute of militiaman punched his face to disarm him. The second punch was successful. His dagger clanged away. The pain was distracting, he had to admit. He managed to open his swollen eyes to see the death blow. A rusty axe raised high as the man straddled him, pinning him to the ground.

He commended his soul to the only thing that mattered to him. _Lady Edelgard...I apologize...for being too weak..._

A glint as a sword swung in a cleaving arc and disarmed his executioner. Literally. The arm and axe fell to the ground. The man screamed as he clutched the stump as he toppled backwards off of him.

Petra and Felix rushed into the fray. His katana and wakizashi flashed through the dim afternoon sunlight. Her ninjatō flickered as well. Bodies fell wherever they passed.

Consciousness waned.

He roughly awoke to a hand slapping his injured face. The pain forced him to regain alertness. Opening swollen eyes, he saw the blunt scowl of Felix leaning above him, his cold golden gaze pitiless and both bloody swords roughly gripped in his opposite hand. The nobleman’s words were curt. “You. Do you know any useful magic?”

Petra was more considerate, even as her red stained sword was held in firm readiness as she constantly watched the area. “Felix. Explain clearly. Hubert...Lysithea is bleeding. We need the healing touches. A stabbing went through her neck.”

That sounded serious. After rising to a sitting position, Hubert reached into another deep pocket and brought forth a Concoction. A miniscule swallow for himself, then he held it forth. Felix moved to take it and Hubert withdrew his hand. “Petra. It should be Petra,” he hissed at the Faerghus nobleman.

Felix’s scowl deepened. “What does it matter? War is war. She knew the risks.”

“Hubert is the right in this. It is a small mercy. You can guard the doorways, Felix,” commanded Petra as she sheathed her bloody short blade and took the healing vial from Hubert. Felix and Petra stared at each other a moment longer, before the Fraldarius heir grunted in acquiescence and took up his post, his swords up and ready.

“Give her the rest,” Hubert whispered to the Brigander, feeling stronger as the potion healed his wounds as his body absorbed it. “Pour some on the wound itself, then have her swallow what remains.”

“I am knowing how to administer medicines in the field,” Petra reproved him. She hurried to tend the fallen Ordelia noble, who was weakly stirring amidst the piles of bodies.

He struggled to rise and glanced behind him at the renewed ring of swords. Felix was fighting another trio of his countrymen, wounds blossoming over the peasants as they tried to strike the youth and paid the price. One tried to circle behind the Blue Lion as the other two attacked his right, forcing him to cross-parry with both of his blades. Hubert blasted the backstabbing offender off the wall with another Miasma.

A lunging thrust and a twisting feint that became a slash dispatched the others. “I didn’t need your help,” said Felix loudly to the air behind him. He didn’t even glance in Hubert’s direction.

“You’re welcome,” smiled Hubert, looking past the shorter man’s head. The mercenary healer Beatrix was up, sprinting past the wyvern riders and bodies, storming past him and Felix without a glance. Soon she and Petra were heard speaking in low voices.

He saw that Knight Shamir had recovered and was directing the defenses, with the rush of the wyverns and their riders blunting the ascent of Lonato’s troops. The pale archer hurrying back and forth, cutting the rope ladders up and down the wall with a long knife, causing Gaspard militia to scream curses at her as they tumbled down onto their fellows. Felix and Hubert assisted her in cutting the rest of the ropes, Felix with his swords and Hubert with his retrieved dagger. Between slicing ropes and killing men, he could see the beacon of Lady Edelgard’s white hair in the rain, but he was relieved to know that she was up and alive. Then his eyes narrowed as he focused more on his mistress.

It looked as if she was struggling against Professor Jeralt.

*

Zarad hated himself for liking the man. He shouldn’t like him. He didn’t _want_ to like him. But Bishop Aelfric was so Spirit-damned _nice._ Smart too. The plan had been his.

“I believe our quarry is ahead, Sir Zarad,” said the man in a quiet whisper where they knelt in the bushes some miles in the forest surrounding Magdred Way. Zarad glanced down at his fellow “Church” member in distaste, trying hard to reconcile the beatific secret Cardinal with the other pious and smugly self-righteous other Seiros priests he had met in his life. Aelfric smiled back up at him, with a smile so perfect and trusting the Almyran had to restrain himself from adding a red one on the brown-haired Cardinal’s pale neck. The man would probably only apologize as he died for being such an inconvenient bother. He forced the irrational thought back down. His magical skills were impressive; it had only taken a day for the Goddess-worshiper to triangulate the epicenter of the magical fog. Something about relative humidity and barometric pressure and some other magical nonsense words, like how Trips would use. They were approaching that position now, with the fog becoming so thick Zarad had trouble seeing his own limbs in the mist.

Concentrating on the job, he growled, “Cover me.” in a harsh whisper. Moving in a slow crouch, Zarad crept through the fog in the woods, his tantōs extended in a ready position in his hands. He wanted to capture one alive, if possible, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to kill to defend himself.

He planted his feet on the roots of trees, moving silently on the balls of his feet. His pitch soaked moccasins aided the grip of his toes through the moisture laden air; he was moving more by feel than sight. The fog was so thick, and had gone on for so long here, that it was killing the plant life. Spring leaves were pale and the unmistakable stench of wood rot was in the air. It made moving through the misting woods an even more unnatural and unnerving experience. His neck itched as he felt terribly exposed.

Two muffled voices came from swirling clouds up ahead. The language they were speaking was unknown to him. Harsh consonants mixed with lyrically flowing vowel sounds. Not Fodlan. Not Almyran. Zarad had never before heard such a language. He leaned his head around a large tree, trying for a glimpse of the speakers.

The voices rose into the shout of spellwork, and the Corporal gagged as noxious waves of dark magic suddenly swept over him. It was like what happened to him at Remire all over again.

However, the pre-cast Ward spell on him worked as Aelfric had promised. Magic that should have killed him now made him only nauseous and dizzy. Remembering his role, Zarad bellowed out with a dramatic death cry, thumping to wet ground with an audible thud. He even thrashed a bit in the forest mulch to make it look good. He held his breath and waited in the dark fog, his hands still clutching his knives.

Sure enough, the muttering voices came closer. Sticks cracked and vegetation rustled as he felt two sets of feet approach. A grunting question above him, to which the other one barked a laugh. Probably commenting on his appearance, Zarad thought through his closed eyes.

A rushing roar boomed overhead Aelfric cast his Fireballs. The trees above him, and his two mysterious assailants, burst into flame, illuminating the area. The air hissed with steam as the wet wood popped and cracked, but suddenly the surrounding wood was brighter than it had been in days.

Zarad blinked his eyes open to see two black robed figures above him, complete with beaked masks that made them resemble nothing more than vultures. The light had startled them and they visibly flinched away from the flames. They made to run, but Zarad rolled to his knees and slashed out with his knives, hamstringing the closest mage. The man shrieked and gabbled in his foreign tongue as the severed muscles and tendons curled up beneath his skin, forcing him to fall and do little more than clutch his leg in agony. The other turned back wildly and tried to cast a quick spell, but Zarad leapt forward, closing the gap and punched his brutally sharp weapons into the mage’s chest. The masked man gurgled wordlessly as he kicked the dying body away from him unceremoniously.

The mages weren’t alone. Strong looking armored figures soon rushed Zarad from the trees, their armor and weapons huge and intimidating. It also didn’t sound like metal; the Almyran Knight blinked to realize they couldn’t be metal, because despite interlocking folds of armor being larger than most heavy plate, the dark armored Knights were moving almost soundlessly. No wonder they were unable to find these people in the sound absorbing fog. He backed away from the strange men, putting his back to the trunk of the ancient burning tree above him.

The squad moved to surround him, cutting off avenues of escape in the flaming light of the burning tree overhead, their weapons glowing with a fey blue glow in the hissing air. Zarad grunted appreciatively at the professionalism. His knives would be next to useless against such solid armor. And those lances and swords...he had the feeling that letting his skin touch them would be a very bad idea.

But he wasn’t exactly alone here either. He sheathed his knives and his opponents hesitated slightly at the unexpected move. Giving them a sour grin in the lurid red light from above, the Almyran brought up his pinched fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly, giving the signal for the charge.

A full company of the Knights of Seiros burst from the outside the field of illumination, Alois and Aelfric in the lead. The Knight-Captain called out what he thought was a proverb as he raised his axe behind his head, screaming as he attacked the nearest dark figure, “Two birds in the hand are worth one burning bush!!”

*

Battle was just exhausting. Linhardt had already gone on a long run today; now he was expected to fight too? Ridiculous.

It was so useless too. People dying for no discernable reason, just because someone in charge decided it was a great idea for everyone else to start killing each other. The blood, the smells, the sights. There were no real lessons to be learned here, no matter how many veterans-turned-poets tried to express themselves. Yes, Life was very precious and all that, so maybe we could have all agreed about that fact _before_ the killing and stabbing parts? Then again, he acknowledged that his own version of a war memoir titled “ _A Bunch of People Ran Around Screaming and Murdering Each Other and It Was Really Gross and Stupid_ ” was unlikely to sell many copies among the masses of Fodlan.

He did manage to find Ignatz’s glasses for him, pushing the cracked lenses into the shy man’s hand as they fled down the stairs. Looking around, it was clear that staying on the monastery wall at this moment was distinctly unhealthy, Lindhardt decided. He soon had Bernadetta tow as well, the shy Indech Crest girl burying her face in his robes as they stumbled downward slick stairs. She must have decided that he was the most calming person within visible range; or at the very least, the most non-threatening. Sensible of her. He had always liked Bernadetta. She appreciated privacy in a way only both of them understood. It was the only way to get things done, sometimes.

Unfortunately, some of the attacking men boiling from the blasted entrance of the broken gate noticed them as they tried to enter the abandoned small marketplace before the monastery halls. Linhardt brushed a strand of wet green hair from his face and tried to gently call Ignatz’s attention to the threat. “Mr. Victor, I believe these men want to speak with you.”

“Ah? Linhardt? Where are they?” Ignatz tried to peer through his twisted frames, and nocked an arrow into his bow, aiming it in...not the right direction. Unless he was deliberately aiming at the wall.

“Bernadetta?” he queried to his back. The men were a lot closer now.

The Varley heiress was chanting something that sounded like an embroidery pattern into his back. “Work a crochet hook and make eight chains. Into this make a dozen double crochets. Draw the thread through the first double crochet and pull through…” She was overwhelmed at the moment.

Linhardt blinked as he realized that the only person who could save his life right now...was himself. The crazed peasants were within ten paces now, their rusty weapons pulled back to fall on their heads.

 _Oh._ It was funny at how one’s firm and idealistic principles against taking a life could change in an instant. Was that cosmic or situational irony? Maybe both, he figured absently.

There was only time enough for a quick Galewind spell. It was rather sloppy, too; he could hear his father’s tutors and Professor Manuela correcting his diction in his head. Still, he could feel his Crest blood surge as the magic was cast, as if Saint Cethleann herself approved of his actions.

The squad of Gaspard men were blown over, tumbling and skidding against the hard ground head over heels. Weapons flew from hands. Bones snapped. Men screamed.

Linhardt ran from the scene, dragging Ignatz and Bernadetta away with him. He didn’t want to see any actual bodies. He might be sick if he saw that. Vomiting was tiresome; his teeth and tongue never felt clean for days afterwards. Even if Caspar claimed he couldn’t taste it when they kissed and accused Linhardt for being completely gross for bringing it up, he still could.

His mind involuntarily turned to his Caspar. Caspar might be dead in the town now. War was a never ending fight, and of course his childhood best friend would rush headlong into the soldiers in the town until he was...he was…

 _Never going to kiss you again and you wasted all of your time sleeping and reading and being cynical and you never told him…_ his too-intelligent mind whispered at him.

He ran blindly through the deserted merchants’ stalls, trying to steer Ignatz and Bernadetta from the majority of the enemy soldiers, as well as his own personal fears. Fortunately, the rain hid them somewhat and the primal needs of immediate survival focused his mind. Also, it helped that the Gatekeeper and some other tired-looking Knights were charging to their defense, rushing to prevent the Faerghus rebels and mounted Western Church Knights from pouring into the monastery proper. Looking back over his shoulder at the combat, he was surprised when he bumped into someone who didn’t look as if she was going to kill him. At least, not this instant. The tall merchant Anna turned and scowled down at them, her red locks clinging her face.

“What are you people doing here? Shop’s closed due to extenuating circumstances,” the shopkeeper huffed grumply. She was far calmer than events warranted. Linhardt liked her practical attitude instantly.

“You’re still defending it, aren’t you?” Linhardt challenged, noting her drawn Brave sword, sensing something...powerful from the woman. She had a Crest, but not one he could identify immediately. How intriguing. Another Lost Crest, here at Garreg Mach? What were the odds?

“Um...guys? I know there’s fighting...I can hear it….but I can’t see anything,” stammered Ignatz, trying to indicate his broken glasses and flinching from the sounds of combat around them. “I’m sorry...I guess I should just run, if someone can just tell me where to go…”

Linhardt was about to wholeheartedly agree, but Anna unexpectedly leaned forward and plucked the torn frames from the merchant son’s face. Ignoring his whining exclamations, she quickly examined the object with a critical eye, unconcerned at the clashes of metal and screams of pain behind her. “Huh...plus 3 right eye, plus 4 left...hang on, Ingrate!” She sheathed her sword and began digging through a box in her stall.

“Um, the name’s Ignatz…”

Anna ignored the protest, giving the box and final dig before turning and shoving a new pair of glasses into the Golden Deer’s hand. “There you go! And you! You need a bow, don’t you? Saint Indech is in you, I can tell!” she yelled at Bernadetta. The Varley girl screamed at the attention and tried to hide herself further under Linhardt’s robes. He belatedly realized she must have dropped her bowshaft earlier in the confusion at the top of the wall. No wonder she hadn’t volunteered to attack. The merchant reached back into her stall and ransacked her boxes a bit more, before coming back with a Brave Bow. She thrust the magnificently crafted weapon into Bernadetta’s hands, ignoring the trembling noblewoman’s continued chanting.

“...insert four knitting needles through all twelve stiches, three stiches to each needle. Hold the doily carefully in your hands to keep the loops from slipping. Tie off each end with small bits of thread,” Bernadetta droned on, her eyes pinched tightly shut from the forward commoner’s attention.

“Help her up here, Ingots,” grunted Anna, giving the noblewoman a boost to stand at the roof of her shop. Bernadetta wailed again in surprised protest as she was shoved above Linhardt’s head, landing with a thump on the wood roof of the wide corner stall. “You kids can help me defend the shop in return for the discounted goodies. Shoot arrows at the bad guys, okay, Burny-bun? They need to die so we can win,” the woman muttered almost distractedly as she advanced on Ignatz. She grunted as she all but grabbed the Golden Deer cadet and pushed him up with the Imperial noblewoman, even as his face turned beet red beneath his new glasses, dumping him beside Bernadetta. Slowly, Linhardt heard the newly-seeing Ignatz coaxing Bernadetta into renewing her attacks. Arrows above them started to fly into torsos and limbs as the archers took up a new firing position, and the stream of incoming foes slowed a great deal as survivors sought cover.

Linhardt felt it was time to add a small observation. “You’re awfully calm, given the situation,” he said to Anna. He felt his tone was mild, all things considered.

“Not my first war,” grunted Anna, before turning from him abruptly. With a smooth motion, she was unsheathing her sword and killing a charging man in one move, parrying his axeblade easily aside then pushing the bladed edge past his guard into his neck. She withdrew the blade from the corpse and held out a hand at a nearby enemy squadron. They screamed as she gripped their lifeforce then pulled it towards herself, struggling and thrashing as they fell and died. Linhardt’s eyes widened at that feat. He had never seen anyone cast a _Multiple_ Nosferatu.

“Been doing this for a while, and I’m not going to lose all my stuff now,” Anna said back behind her shoulder, her sword up and ready to keep the seething Gaspard mob at bay. “You wouldn’t believe how long it’s taken me to collect some of this junk. Need to sell it to _someone_ on this continent _._ Recoup my investments. If you’re not busy, Handcart, go talk to Professor Maskface over there by the wall and get him to help. He told me earlier he didn’t want to fight, not even when I offered him a rebate.”

He caught himself smiling before he remembered this was a battle, and doing things like that were frowned on by others. He wanted to talk with Anna more and pester her about what kind of Crest-bearing blood she _obviously_ had, but the fact that Professor Jeritza didn’t want to fight was concerning. He knew the former Imperial noble well enough for that, even though he avoided all contact with the man like the plague.

The masked Combat Instructor was lounging on the wall near the monastery stairs, observing the screams and dying with folded arms. Linhardt carefully noted he was smiling. A wide smile, with a pleased cast to his face and a lusty glint in his eyes behind the mask. Linhardt found his lips now curling in disgust as he approached the Professor. Of course the most gorgeous man Linhardt had ever laid eyes upon was a complete sociopathic headcase. With a smile like that, he probably drowned kittens for his private amusement while away the training grounds. Caspar had his issues, but he was practically a Saint compared to the way this man was obviously taking pleasure from combat.

He presented himself. “Professor Jeritza. Waiting for someone to ask you to dance?”

The mask shifted slightly to stare disdainfully at him. “What do you want, useless one?”

In other circumstances, Linhardt might have taken that title as a compliment. Instead he said, “I just noticed there’s a combat happening in Garreg Mach. In the meantime, the _Combat_ Instructor is taking his afternoon siesta in full view of said combat. It’s only mildly concerning behavior.”

A low tone of disinterest. “They are weaklings. I was ordered to merely watch.”

 _Hm._ So that was what this was about. In his own midnight wanderings through the halls of Garreg Mach, he had noticed Hubert, Edelgard, and Jeritza talking in low voices and whispers in places they thought were abandoned at that hour--the cemetery, the bathhouses, the gardens. He had no idea what they were planning, and he didn’t care now and probably wouldn’t care much afterward. But right now the defense of Garreg Mach could use some bolstering, and Linhardt wanted to live through it. Sleep was nice; sleeping forever, not so much.

Then Linhardt remembered something he had heard Hubert recently say to Lady Edelgard. Before the explosion. Just as he was moving her out of range of Lonato’s attack…

Linhardt composed his face into his usual blank and disinterested mask. Despite what people thought about him, he really _wasn_ ’ _t_ that good at lying or bluffing. It was hard for him to not simply speak his mind on matters. But at least it was an expression with which he had broad experience. He stepped closer to the Combat Professor for the necessary dramatic effect. “Um, well...but Lord Vestra has sent me with new orders. Lonato is using one of _their_ weapons,” he said, remembering to accentuate the plural. “He is receiving direct aid from _them_. Therefore, he is no longer weak. Her Imperial Highness needs you to engage him personally.”

He had no real idea what he was talking about. He had no clue who the “ _they”_ were to which Hubert was referring. But if this mysterious group could produce Crest-level weaponry...then that might be something worth observing.

The effect of his words on Jeritza was instantaneous. He stiffened once before striding forward, unsheathing a powerful and ancient-looking sword from his back, which Linhardt wanted to inspect more closely but thought that was an unhealthy notion at the moment. The masked Combat Professor strode past Anna, almost serenely walking to the nearest Gaspard attacker. The man turned to face the tall blonde ex-noble and extended his steel sword to attack.

Jeritza flowed to the side and his long blade hummed through the air in a two-handed blow. A broken sword and head flew in graceful parabolas before falling with the rain. Ignoring the clumping body behind him, Professor Jeritza stepped forward into the warzone and killed again. And again. And again. 

Linhardt tried to follow at a discrete distance. He didn’t want to get _too_ close to the blood, after all.

*

Caspar blinked slowly, coming back around. He felt like he was lying on a table, and he noted his arm felt much better. Sore, but better. He briefly wondered if combat and fighting always meant slipping in and out of consciousness this much. He had been KO’ed before in fights, but he always seemed to bounce back up from stuff like that. This felt much worse, he thought analytically like his best friend, unable to do much else. He barely felt alive.

“Caspar! Oh! Hey! You did it, Master Leclerc!” Annette, at top volume per usual. Still, he was relieved to know she was okay. He just wished he could muster some enthusiasm of his own.

“‘Sup, ‘Nette,” he mumbled. He felt her small hands pat his shoulders like a drum.

“Stay still,” ordered Annette. “Yuri says you lost a _lot_ of blood. I’ll get you some water, and see if you can take some. Be right back!” Stamping feet dashing away. Remarkably, there were no crashes into barrels.

“And that’s enough for today, Yuri-my-dear,” said a bossy reprimand. Constance. Back to her old self, somehow. Maybe she had been healed too. “You’ve exhausted yourself! Why look at your drawn eyes, your sweating lip, your trembling hands! You have pushed yourself past your limits, and you know it!”

A new voice. One that just screamed thief or rogue. “Maybe. Maybe not. I think I’ve got some Physics left. Until I collapse, I’m not done. But you...you’ve still got a job to do.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Lonato...he made it past the gates. Somehow. One of the gang saw it, up on the hill. I think Rhea’s going to need help.” Caspar felt his belly turn to ice at those words, but no matter how he struggled, he just didn’t have the energy to rise. _Linhardt..._

Scoffing dismissal. “As if we owe her anything? After the way she’s treated Hapi?! After how she basically _forced_ you after your expulsion and disgrace to become her own private Spymaster? And after she…”

“Denied your petition. I know, I know, Constance, but at least that wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t as if she could order the Imperial Ministry to do anything.”

Accusation. “You say that just because you like her.”

“...I do, on some levels. She’s just as grey as the rest of us, and she doesn’t really hide that fact from people she trusts. Besides, she’ll owe us after this, right? I told you how I saved her two favorite Knights and some students on the west side. So now she’ll just owe us even more.”

“You might be more forgiving, Yuri, but I, for one, refuse to work with that monster of an Archbishop ever again! I graduated at the top in my classes out of all three Houses last year, but she just smiled sadly and said her worthless apologies to my face, and I was forced to abandon my dorm room, weeping my eyes out as she blithely crushed my dreams, and she _knew_ I was homeless, that I didn’t have _anywhere_ to go…”

“Constance.” A sigh of long suffering patience. “You met me and Balthus _right_ after that. A day later, at the inn. Tell me you can put two and two together, at least.”

Caspar felt himself fade from the world a bit after that, but then felt his head being tilted forward and a comforting murmur from Annette, and something cold and wet on his lips. It tasted metallic, but he drank it all, noticing his mouth was so dry he felt like he was absorbing water through his tongue. Just as he thought his stomach couldn’t bear anymore, the water was drawn away. It allowed him to stir again and hear Annette’s voice.

“You saw all of them? Mercie, Dorothea, Leonie, Hilda?”

The refined roguish voice spoke up. “Didn’t meet anyone named Leonie, but the other three girls, yeah. Hilda and Balthus are apparently long-lost childhood besties. We woke up the Knights just as some other Academy nobles started attacking the wurm. I had to get back over here because I know Constance only casts Bolting on _special_ occasions, and suspected she might be in trouble.”

“You just left Hapi and Balthus to fend for themselves? Against a monster?” gasped Constance.

Defensive protests. “They had the Ashen Demon and Thunder Catherine with them. If they can’t kill a single monster, then my presence really wasn’t going to help. Besides, you’re acting like I didn’t _just_ rush over here and heal you, along with a dozen other people.”

Constance huffed something under her breath that Caspar decided he was glad he didn’t catch.

“We need to get back to Garreg Mach. Finish this with Lonato.” An unfamiliar voice, but...oh yeah, that Knight-Captain woman. “Our thanks for the healing, but we still have wounded men down here…”

“I’m not interested in making anymore enemies today,” said the one called Yuri with a smile in his voice. “If it makes you feel better, you can leave a squad down here to guard them, and as a sign of good faith, I’ll take up some of my gang to scrap with Lonato’s army with you. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

The Knight growled. “If anything happens to them…”

The rogue’s voice turned cold. “Look, I’ve lost men today too. No Knights down here will lose anything; well, wait, that’s not true. They might lose their dignity by being forced to shelter in place with street scum like us, but at least they won’t lose their lives. Or their honor.”

“I’m coming!” Annette protested immediately.

“Really now…”

It took the greatest effort of his life to open his eyes and prop himself up on his elbows. But he managed. “Wait a second, jerks,” grunted Caspar, glaring at the surprised group. “I’m coming too.”

*

The last surviving Gaspard Knight was more skilled than she had expected, relentlessly battering her shield backward with his own mace, until Professor Jeralt stabbed him in the back with his lance. Edelgard didn’t miss her opportunity, cleaving the man’s own helmet with her battleaxe, ignoring the splatter. She kicked at the twitching body to free her weapon and assessed the battle.

Seteth’s wyverns were doing an excellent job of clearing the walls and towers from the invaders trying to surge over the walls. Past them, however, Lonato’s archers were beginning to fire back, crippling the beasts through their thin wings. The animals roared at the pain, but mounted on their perches on the wall, at least did not fall to their deaths with their unfortunate riders. Edelgard staggered forward to glance over the edge of ramparts. Lonato’s army was surging into the open gate, with the Kingdom noble directing his men forward past him with his glowing yellow spear. The Imperial Princess’ violet eyes narrowed at the sight. Remarkably efficient ruthlessness, from a supposedly devout man.

Dedue moved next to her, a wide broken stone from the collapsing gatehouse in his hands, hurling it on the helmets below. An unfortunate peasant was instantly killed, and others yelled in alarm as the stone block rolled through their charge. Not a bad idea. Hubert had briefed her on the surprising depth of Dimitri’s retainer. She should have expected no less.

A brief glance between them, then she wordlessly moved to assist with the task. Setting aside her axe and shield within easy reach, she looked around for a large enough projectile to throw…

...and froze in utter horror.

Jeralt and Seteth were still near Professors Hanneman and Manuela. The Abbot had brought a supply of vulneraries with him, and Hanneman, at least, was wounded but awake, leaning hard against a stone block with a hand resting on his twisted leg. Professor Manuela was still down, however, her skin pale and her white robes stained crimson. Seteth was on his knees over her Professor, his sleeve rolled up and his arm bare. A thin line of red was suspended between him and the veins in Manuela’s arm.

Edelgard was striding forward before she consciously acknowledged the fact. Hubert would reprimand her for the lapse, a small part inside of her whispered. He had coached her again and again at not letting her memories get the better of her, and she had readily agreed to the necessity. She guided him himself, at times, when Hubert’s icy cold rages led him to killing when it wasn’t necessary, or when his bitterness at his father and Duke Aegir or her Lord Uncle overwhelmed him. She was overwhelmed herself at this moment, but she could stop herself, prevent her leaden feet from propelling herself, but her body was still moving, her emotions too chaotic to sort through…

An armored arm stopped her. “Hey kid,” grunted Professor Jeralt, sweeping her back up the rampart effortlessly, his scarred face set firmly in a frown. “Let’s give them some space. You don’t want to be there if it doesn’t work.”

“What...is he doing?” her numb mouth moved. Her gauntlets gripped the massive forearm pushing her, struggling weakly, then more strongly as she regained her strength and focus. “What is he _doing?_ ” she growled in a louder voice towards the Blade-Breaker, starting to push his arm back.

Jeralt strained against her easily as he applied more effort, using his spear to brace himself against her weight, and she saw with surprise that his eyes were...sympathetic. He had completely misread her emotions. “A transfusion,” he explained softly. “Manuela’s spine is broken. The vulneraries weren’t healing her in time, and we couldn’t get her to swallow them. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

He didn’t bother to explain the incongruity of using a blood transfusion to heal broken bones and nerves. Maybe he thought she would simply know this not-widely acknowledged fact, given her royal title and position. Edelgard tried to push back once more, struggling harder, straining against the Professor before abruptly giving up. Her eyes stared with sorrow at her Professor, finally beginning to acknowledge it was too late. The blood was in her now, and there was nothing Edelgard could do to stop it. She was fond of Manuela. She had always felt at ease with the dramatic, flighty woman, despite her silly escapades. She had approved heartily of her recent changes in lifestyle, noting the encouraging results. She had been becoming a better person. And now she was being taken from her, not by a natural death in battle, but by a secret sect of immortal tyrants. Would her Professor be the same person, having such alien blood in her, even if it was saving her life? Would Edelgard be forced to cut her down in the future war against the Church as well?

Edelgard ceased her efforts, turning away to compose herself. “It’s not natural,” she said to herself, then cursed herself as she realized she had said the words out loud.

“No. It’s not,” agreed Byleth’s father to her surprise. If there were emotions there, they were too complex to be read.

She looked back at him. Now that she was closer, she could clearly tell what she was feeling from this man with her Crest empathy. She remembered it from her older brother, Maximilian. Who had been the only other one of their father’s children to bear a minor Crest of Seiros.

Jeralt was no Imperial Prince of Adrestia. There was only one other source where he could have manifested such a sign.

Her eyes flickered back to the tall Monastery they were defending. “Something like this happened to you as well,” she stated factually.

Jeralt’s face finally lost all softness and became stern and fierce. “Yeah,” he bit off.

“And Byleth?” asked Edelgard coolly, dreading the answer. _Byleth has a secret Crest as well..._

Jeralt didn’t bother with speaking. Intead, he just nodded his head past her.

“Lady Edelgard,” says Hubert, standing at attention for her. Dedue, Shamir, Felix and Petra are all staring at her. A drawn and shrunken Lady Beatrix holds Lysithia in her arms, who looks very small and fragile, but regards her keenly all the same. The sounds of metal clashing and people dying are suddenly distant. 

She ignores them all and retrieves her axe and shield. Behind her, Byleth’s father begins calling new orders, directing them down the gatehouses to blunt Lonato’s charge. Edelgard briefly acknowledges her own orders, pairing up with Petra. She ignores the Brigid Princess’ hopeful prayer for Professor Manuela’s health. At least she does not pray to the Goddess.

Edelgard begins feeling cold inside as they hurry down the stairs to more fighting, because she realizes what an Emperor must do, even if they happen to encounter their former Professor on the field of war. And to her regret, she realizes she has already said good-bye to Professor Manuela in her heart, no matter the outcome.

Her Professor is dead to her now.

And Byleth may be taken from her next.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you ever write something, get doubtful/embarrassed, delete it in a sleep-deprived fit of mania, rewrite it, then remember you should haven't deleted the first part to compare the two? And binge on a thousand other fics in the meantime?
> 
> Fair warning, here's where I'm going to start deviating from WC a lot. Full stop non-canon, but still interspersed with more fluff stuff like Eagle and Lion and political intrigue and the ball. If that isn't your cup of tea, feel no obligation to commit to reading my madness. But the main thing that constantly bugs me in WC is the Church of Seiros throwing the students who also happen to be very important sole heirs of massively important noble houses into combat carelessly. Like, what if Petra is killed in a random bandit attack? Whoops! There goes that alliance, and now the entire Brigid Isles is in revolt! I'm sure the Adrestian Empire is just thrilled with that. So this will be more "Knights of Seiros and other political entities actually try to do their jobs, with the students helping in ways they can."
> 
> The lack of braincells are no better from the villain end of things. 
> 
> "Lord Arundel, I'm afraid Edelgard was killed by the Death Knight."  
> "Hurm, there goes my super weapon against Rhea and the end of the Hresvelg lineage! Oh, well, let's nuke a random location in Fodlan or something, and not a strategic target like Enbarr or Fhirdiad or Deidru."  
> "Yessir! A brilliant plan!"
> 
> I have the next two or three chapters planned out, but want some feedback for some future plotlines I might want to explore, to see if they sound interesting to people:  
> -The SotC actually gets stolen.  
> -The DK kidnaps someone else for juicy blood juice.  
> -No Monica (or Kronya snuffs and impersonates another candidate)  
> -Rhea goes ballistic much sooner  
> -Instead of infecting the population with zombie murder juice in a strategically insignificant location, like Remire, why not Arhianrhod, Deidru, or even...the Abyss?


	27. Intimacy and Lunacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As you know, madness is like gravity...all it takes is a little push.” 
> 
> ―-
> 
> The Joker - Heath Ledger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omigosh! I wrote a chapter where I think the majority of the cast got a line of dialogue! Some of these characters are real prima donnas, you know. One time, it took days to get Lorenz to come out from his trailer...
> 
> *ahem*
> 
> Feral Dimitri fans rejoice!
> 
> Mercie/Sylvain fans rejoice, Dorogrid fans rejoice, Cathmir fans rejoice, and the 1 person who ships Petra/Felix (Petrix? Fetra?) rejoice. 
> 
> Your hour is come at last.
> 
> CN:TW: Violence, gore, near death experiences, misogyny, homophobia, self-hate, mental illness, domestic violence, ref to prostitution/sexual assault/child abuse

Chapter 27

Intimacy and Lunacy

It took only a few gentle, probing questions to get the truth out of Sylvain.

“Ah, yeah, about that...um, we sorta just came down here on our own. Without any orders. Um, and in reality,” Sylvain said, looking up and down again sheepishly, “we...sort of defied orders to come down here on a rescue mission?”

Mercedes shook her head at the pleading explanation framed as a question, as if it were up to her approval alone to make things better for him.

Thus it was all the more devastating for him when she shook her blonde hair sadly, the wet locks swaying. “Oh Sylvain. I’m so disappointed,” she murmured sadly.

They were seated in the dimly lit inn, with the ruptured, stinking corpse of the wurm still outside the broken doors. Ingrid was still too weak to do much more than walk (and yell at Sylvain, but pointedly, not at Dorothea), her legs as shaky as a newborn filly, and Dorothea--after retrieving her uniform jacket from Ingrid’s leg, an action that made both women blush--had declared she would watch over the Blue Lion in the shelter of the inn until she was recovered. Lorenz and Ferdinand’s mounts were found in time for Knights Byleth and Catherine to mount up alongside them, and after much cajoling and whining, Hilda was forced to mount behind Knight Catherine on Lorenz’s massive black steed. Balthus immediately announced he was going to follow them at a run, and the group soon set off for the monastery back up the hill. Ignored by everyone, Hapi listlessly dragged her feet around the inn, avoiding coming near Dorothea and Ingrid where they were seated in the corner, and now stood by against the bar with the other locals, looking between the four Academy students with mixed expressions of longing and bitterness.

Since Sylvain’s horse was nowhere to be found, he volunteered to stay at the inn to guard the ladies. Knight-General Byleth had just nodded blankly, already moving past him, but Catherine and the rest all had rolled their eyes. Mercedes knew better though. He was just concerned about his friends. And after numerous, joyful hugs to both Ingrid and Dorothea, the songstress pointedly told Sylvain that Ingrid might want a chance to rest. He had quickly backed off after that for a chance to talk to Mercedes.

At Mercedes’ words, Sylvain’s face filtered through bafflement, hurt, resignation, then finally back to the jovial mask he so often wore. “Heh. Um. Well, I suppose it’s been fun, Mercie. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine back in Gautier. I wasn’t getting much out of the Academy anyway, besides a reputation. Um.” He hesitated as his chair scooted back. “I’ll check in on Ingrid and Dorothea and see if they need anything…” he said as he made to stand.

Mercedes felt mildly surprised. “You don’t want to hear me out?”

An artless shrug. “Why bother? Even I can list my faults in alphabetical order these days. Adolescent, Betraying, Creepy, Disillusioned, Evasive, Facile…”

She almost laughed, but she knew Sylvain wouldn’t appreciate it right now. “My, my. You certainly have given it a lot of thought,” she smiled at him.

That threw him off balance and Sylvain again hesitated by the table. “Ah...yeah, I did. Even the X’s and Z’s. Why? Did you want to hear those, too?”

Her smile dimpled, confusing him further. “Maybe later. I’m more curious about what prompted such studious self-deprecation.”

He sighed regretfully and hung his head. “I thought today was going to be a new start for me. Y’know, where I could actually change for the better? But...then all these messed up things happened.”

“No, you’re right. This battle was certainly confusing and frightening. I must admit, I didn’t think today would turn out like this also. I do hope everyone else is okay at the monastery. But what’s this about you trying to change? Change what?”

“It’s nothing,” said the redhead, bonelessly shrugging again. “I was going to be...a better man, I guess. You know what, scratch that. Just a better person. For...somebody, but they’re probably not even interested in me anyway. Not in someone no good like me.”

Mercedes might have caught Sylvain’s side-eyed glances had she not been so caught up in considering his admissions. Instead, she said to him, “That’s very good of you, Sylvain. I’m glad you saw that a change was necessary. But I still think you’re falling back into your bad habits.”

Now he was curious himself. “How so?”

Mercedes smiled and waved up at him. Sometimes he was so perceptive, but that same perception hardly extended to himself. “Just now. You’re running away from me. You don’t want to listen to what I have to say. You’d rather end our friendship than risk being hurt.”

Sylvain’s mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments, before he sighed and sat down again, but he buried his hands in his unruly hair, looking at the table. “Okay. I’m listening. About how disappointed you are in me.”

“Please look at me when I’m speaking,” she chided. “It’s very rude and childish to do otherwise.”

He groaned theatrically but raised his brown eyes up at her. She smiled in encouragement. “That’s better. So here’s what I was going to say before you leapt to assumptions. I’m not disappointed in you, Sylvain. I’m disappointed for you. And for me, as well. I will miss our little talks if you get expelled for defying orders during live combat. And maybe I’m a little upset you acted so thoughtlessly for your own future, as well. I’m very grateful to be saved by the four of you, and don’t doubt Knight Byleth and Knight Catherine and the rest of us will put in a good word for all of you for your fearless bravery against that monster, but who knows if it will be enough? Father Seteth and Lady Rhea are going to be very displeased, not to mention our Professors.” Mercedes paused in her thoughts, tapping a finger to her cheek. “If worse comes to worst, just know that my fondest wish for you is to love yourself as much as you love everyone else. I think you know what kind of love I mean. Your life is very precious to others too, I hope you realize that. So seeing you act so thoughtlessly and recklessly about your own future, it can be somewhat hurtful to others.” She looked back at Sylvain with a start. “Oh, I’m sorry, I was rambling. I do that sometimes, but I hope you heard something useful from me. Sometimes I get carried away and lose my train of thought.”

He was looking at her strangely. As if in wonder. Eventually, he said, “No, you’re not rambling. I’m...I mean…” he broke off, then started again. “I’ll miss our talks too. They’re so...comfortable, I guess. And you have me pegged about how I act about myself. How I act about others I care about. You see right through me, and I...I dunno...I kind of enjoy it.” A slow flush was creeping up his cheeks.

Mercedes smiled again, but there was definitely impish cast to it now. “Oh dear. Is the legendary Sylvain blushing like a maiden in presence of poor little old me?” Sylvain’s blush deepened and this time she did giggle. “I’ll stop teasing you, Sylvain, if you want to talk a little bit more. What’s so enjoyable about talking with me compared to others?”

Sylvain laughed off his blush but his eyes were still serious. “Um. I dunno. I guess I’m just...messed up in the head, about relationships that weren’t with my childhood group. As I grew up, I found that girls always wanted something from me. And...since it was so easy...I always wanted something from them. So it was like...just give and take. Transactional, like we were trading something in a merchant’s stall. And then I would always cancel the sale at the last minute--if that makes any sense.”

She nodded solemnly in understanding. “It does.”

“But Mercie, um, when I’m talking with you feels like...learning, I guess? I’m learning about you, but I also learn about myself. And it’s.really interesting. I mean, right now, I feel like I’m becoming a better person just chatting with you.”

She had to blush at that. “Now who’s the tease? Please behave, Sylvain. I thought we had agreed to no flirting.”

“I wasn’t! I really wasn’t! I was being serious,” he immediately protested. “I know you’ve been through some terrible stuff, but all those experiences you went through, you learned from them. And I guess I’m saying I’m jealous about that. I’ve been through all sorts of crap too, and I didn’t seem to learn anything from it...until I started talking with you. And you started calling me out on how I was dealing with it. So...um...even if I do get expelled for disobeying orders...I’m really, truly thankful that we met each other,” he said, meeting her eyes.

Bittersweet emotions fluttered through her heart, but still, her main feeling was pride in Sylvain. He really was trying to grow up, and be worthy not for the sake of Crests or nobility, but because it was simply the right thing to do. Gazing deeply back at him, she said, “I’m so glad to hear you say that. All I’ve really done is try to emulate my old Church priestess back in Charon. She often used to tell me that no light can exist without darkness. And that sometimes...we have to make our own light, and do our best to share it with others. I’ll always be glad I’ve been able to share mine with you.”

Sylvain had that soft expression on his face once more, and seemed about to say something, but Dorothea stepped forward at that moment to clear her throat gently. “Ah, Mercedes? I’m sorry to interrupt, but the innkeeper has generously offered Ingrid a bed upstairs, and I’ll need Sylvain’s help walking her up the steps…”

“Oh, that’s a great idea! She’s still so weak and she needs a chance to rest…” said Sylvain agreebly, jumping up and looking at Ingrid still slumped in her chair. He ran forward a step before looking back. “Um, we’ll finish later, Mercie?” he said to her, backing away, his hand on the back of his neck.

Mercedes smiled and nodded to him in reassurance.

Sylvain grinned in a genuine, delighted smile before he moved with Dorothea to support Ingrid, with an arm over each of their necks. Ingrid hotly demanded that she didn’t need to be babied all the way, which Dorothea and Sylvain both quietly ignored. The pain of nearly losing her was still too fresh, and they all knew part of Ingrid’s ill temper was her barely concealed grief and guilt for the loss of her precious mount, Snowmane. 

She watched them guide Ingrid up the stairs, wishing she could help, even though she felt much better with the invigorating healing energy that apparently came from Knight Byleth. Despite Ferdinand’s and the others serious declarations that it had been a miracle of healing, Mercedes still harbored doubts. There might be some other explanation, and while she knew that the Goddess wanted believers, there was such a thing as being too credulous.

Two solid thumps and a creaking protest from a rickety chair announced Hapi’s arrival at the table. Mercedes frowned doubtfully at the mug in front of her, while the red eyed woman sipped from hers. “I’m not much one for alcohol,” she told the strange woman.

Hapi rolled her eyes at her. “I thought not. You’re such a good Seirosian, I got you water instead. Rain barrel is full, so it should be fresh.”

Mercedes nodded and took a cautious sip. It was fresh, but there was a bitter aftertaste of smoke and ash from the war that had come to Garreg Mach town. She swallowed it anyway. She was sure these poor souls from the Abyss had drank much worse in the past.

The Abyssian seemed to be leading up to something, but having trouble speaking. She kept biting her lip, looking between Mercedes and back up the stairs. Finally she said, “I think he likes you.”

Mercedes blinked. “You mean Sylvain? Of course we like each other. We’re good friends and classmates.”

Taking another drink from her tankard, Hapi swished the liquid in her mouth before swallowing. “Uh-huh. Good friends don’t risk getting expelled for a lark. Or their lives. He’s a nobleman, right? You know how much shit his family will give him if he doesn’t graduate? Garreg Mach Academy is not cheap. The Church doesn’t give refunds.”

Mercedes shifted a bit in her seat. She was all too uncomfortably aware of this. Her adoptive father lorded this fact over her, as well as her debts from the School of Sorcery, at every opportunity and with every letter. All this talk of money and implicit talks of Crests and nobility was making her feel strange, as if she was dirty. Looking down at the woodgrain of the table, she said instead, “Eavesdropping on private conversations is very rude, you realize.”

“Of course I realize that. I’m not an idiot. I’m just checking to make sure you’re not one, either.”

Now a frown was tugging her lips. She could feel her brow starting to furrow. This woman was becoming too direct for her tastes.

Hapi only grinned at her disapproval. “Got your attention, did I? Good. Anyway. Wanted to give you some free advice. Two things, then I’m done. As way of thanks for helping us.”

“I’ll listen, then,” nodded Mercedes. She figured she could stand this rude woman a bit longer, if she was being honest.

“So. I heard what you said to him about loving yourself before you can love others. And...I think you’re right. You’re smart to realize that,” said Hapi, taking another swig.

Confused by the rapid shifts in topic, Mercedes tried to nod politely. “Ah...thank you?”

“You’re welcome. So free piece of advice number one. Don’t be a fucking hypocrite.”

Mercedes' eyes widened in shock even as her stomach tightened as if punched. No stranger had _ever_ said such things to her.

Ignoring her reaction, Hapi pointed a black fingernail at her. “You know what I’m talking about. You’re a person who thinks they’re so good, you’re willing and able to put up with a guy like him. You know he’s been down to this inn, right? Frequently. With a different girl on his arm each time.”

It was difficult to keep the anger from her voice. “Yes, I knew that. Almost everyone knows that. I don’t care about his past.”

Hapi’s brows raised. “Do you know about the ones he pays for? Yuri runs a discrete brothel in the back. Screened clients, consensual employees. Even a profit-sharing plan. They’re an expert at that stuff. Sylvain’s a welcome customer down here. He’s a popular guy.”

She was starting to sweat all over her body from the woman’s charged words. “No...I didn’t. But again, I don’t particularly care,” she said defensively.

A snort. “Bullshit. All I’m saying is respect yourself and let yourself feel selfish, before you give him a single day of your life. Which leads me into free piece of advice number two,” grunted Hapi, taking a final swig as she knocked her tankard back. She slammed it back down and burped. “Some people are holes. They will never love themselves. They will never be content. I should know. I’m a hole.” She thumped a thumb to her chest. “Someone could spend the rest of their life with me, could pour all the love and care and attention they could give into me, and that wouldn’t change a damn thing in the way I feel about myself.” Her red eyes bored into Mercedes’ blue ones as she leaned forward. “It wouldn’t be fair. To me or to them.”

Turning her head away, Mercedes waited patiently for Hapi to leave. She would not validate such rude and disrespectful words with a response. When she looked up, she was glad to see the tan woman was no longer sitting across from her, and was instead standing guard at the entrance to the inn outside. She was directing a few surviving stragglers inside, along with a few exhausted and wounded Knights of Seiros. Hapi accepted these individuals only begrudgingly, pointing them to barely dry patches of the floor in the common room.

“Mercie? Are you okay?”

Her tall fellow Blue Lion had rejoined her. Looking up into Sylvain’s brown eyes, Mercedes tried to read the emotions therein. She normally felt so secure and confident in her desire to help others. Now she felt only doubts. Was Hapi right, and she was acting like a fool? Did she really know Sylvain? Did she really know herself?

But Saint Seiros had doubted too, she reminded herself. She had prayed and fasted for days and weeks by the Goddess’ body after she fell, hoping for a sign. And then she had found one, and heard the Holy Revelation from the Mother.

As always, Mercedes’ faith in the Goddess grounded herself and her actions. Perhaps all of Hapi’s so-called street smart “advice” was her own cry for help. Another soul begging for light in their darkness. She would think over Hapi’s words, and try to make a response to her later. But now there was the Goddess’ work to be done.

“I’m fine, Sylvain,” she said firmly, but not unkindly as she got up. “Will you ask the innkeeper if there are any spare blankets left? I’ll try and heal these poor Knights, if I can…”

“Um, okay. But hey, listen...don’t push yourself too hard, all right?” His concern was obvious, and she found it calmed her. A great deal.

She nodded to him with a strong, deep breath before smiling again. “I won’t. Thank you, Sylvain.”

*

Claude was naturally curious. That curiosity had encouraged him to come to Fodlan. Having seen first-hand the prowess and expertise of Almyran calvary, the dreaded Immortal Riders, and witnessed the fury of full flights of Barbarossas raining death and fire from above on Almyra’s numerous enemies, he often wondered why the Almyran Empire, which was three times larger than Adrestia had ever been at its mightiest, had never conquered Fodlan, even despite the natural geographic barrier of Fodlan’s Throat. Even the mostly landlocked Almyra had a navy that dwarfed anything the Leceister Alliance could put to sea, complete with flashpowder bombards that as far as he could tell, Fodlanders had not discovered yet.

After seeing Crests in wartime action, Claude was willing to believe he now had a notion how Fodlan had remained independent for so long, and defended itself so well.

Captain Teach and Professor Jeritza led in the van of the counterattack, cutting through Lonato’s army almost at will through the gate arch. Edelgard and a sword-wielding Dimitri brought up their flanks, their movements less skilled but no less deadly. Felix acted as a clean up man, swiftly dispatching any wounded who fell behind any of the four lead Crest-bearers, with Leonie, Dedue, and Petra helping guard their backs. Claude and Bernadetta and Ashe fired arrows side by side, their projectiles almost veering into enemy targets of their own volition. Nearby, Marianne and Linhardt healed any wound or stumble, almost inexhaustible of magical energy, while Raphael guarded them with his life, punching or bashing any nearby foe into a bloody pulp.

 _It’s the synchronization_ , Claude slowly realized, feeling his blood hum and his concentration preternaturally focused, feeling as if time itself was slowing itself down for his convenience. He instinctively felt the same happening to Bernadetta beside him, seeing her normally shy face gone and her expression locked into a determined, almost bloodthirsty snarl. A sense of disgusted awe went through him as he watched the bodies of their foes pile up. He recalled the words of the book he had stolen from the library. _All the Crests are connected, one way or another_. _Whether from the Ten Elites or the Five Saints_. _All are Blessings from the Goddess. When they join together, they all empower and compliment one another. Even helping the non-Crest bearers fighting beside them. And this is without Relics…!_

His quiver was empty. He turned to look for more arrows in the bodies around them, but found the strange merchant next to him, her face brightly grinning as she held out two large arrow laden sacks in each hand for both him and Bernadetta and Ashe.

“Compliments of the house!” Anna said sweetly.

They soon found themselves outside of the monastery gates, having completely blunted Lonato’s mad charge. Glancing above through the thinning rain, Claude saw Ignatz and Shamir and other archers firing arrows from high above, with Hubert and Lysithea continuing to rain magical dark fire on the more distant enemies, further weakening Lonato’s forces and clearing their flanks.

Grimly, he noted that he saw no sign of Seteth or Professor Manuela on the walls. He remembered right before they had all linked up, he had seen Petra wiping her eyes, and Claude immediately had been concerned, asking the Brigid Princess--and his fellow outsider--what was wrong.

“Professor Manuela is hovering over death,” Petra told him shortly, quietly. “High Father Seteth prays to the Mother-Spirit of Fodlan for healing.” Edelgard had then snapped at Petra to catch up and follow. Probably barely concealing her own grief, Claude thought sympathetically. He liked Professor Manuela himself as well.

Then they finally came near Lonato. And his strange artifact.

For the first time, Claude got close enough to get a good look at the magic weapon the rebel nobleman wielded. It was shaped like a lance, but the end was burnished with a conical yellow point that appeared almost comical, like a child’s toy. What wasn’t comical is the way Lonato wielded it. When he pointed at someone, they tended to die. Instantly. Several twisted piles of ash and armor of former Knights of Seiros lay strewn about the madman and his horse, still smoking in the wet air.

He wanted to be near Lonato when the fighting started against him, but the flying wedge of the Knights of Seiros and students had begun to break apart, with the lines becoming chaotic and confused at the most dangerous moment as Lonato’s final reserves rushed forward. Claude found himself forced to abandon his bow, slinging it over his head as he drew his sword. “Ashe! Bernadetta!” he called. “Might want to retreat a bit!”

Bernadetta stammered an assent, willingly hanging back but still drawing and firing, but Ashe stayed next to him as they advanced into the swarming melee, even as he had to start drawing and firing arrows at closer and closer targets. “Ashe…” Claude warned, managing to stab Leonie’s current opponent in the back, leaving her to finish him off.

“I’ve got your back, Claude,” was all the Blue Lion said, grimly. Claude would have sighed except a lance was seeking his life just now. He hacked the tip to the ground with his sword, before lunging forward with his lead foot in a full extension and wounding the man in the exposed shoulder. He nearly slipped in the mud. At least he hoped it was mud.

 _Focus, Khalid!_ yelled his parents and Nader in his mind.Instead of disengaging, he used his boot to keep his foe’s weapon down, his left hand drawing his belt knife. Still locked together by his sword, Claude thrust under his right arm into the man’s face.

It took a few more stabs to make the poor sod cease struggling, and then Claude had to work at freeing his weapons. He turned and barely had time to dodge the axe thrown at him. It impacted behind him with a meaty thud, which he prayed was an enemy dying and not a friend, and he ran forward through the melee to cut the axe-thrower before the man could draw another weapon. Too late.

The Gaspard man-at-arms drew another hatchet from his belt, and swung at his left just as Claude punched his sword forward through a gap in the breastplate. The heavy edge dug painfully into his ribs, breaking the links of his light, expensive chain mail underneath his yellow-black tunic. Hissing at the pain, he thrust his knife up into the snarling man’s chin, viciously working his wrist back and forth as the tip entered. The dead man toppled back with Claude on top of him. Getting to his feet was a woozy affair, and he belatedly remembered to try and tug at his weapon hilts to jerk them free. He desperately hoped Ashe was still guarding his back. That anyone was still guarding his back.

“Claude!”

Instinctively he ducked at the voice, which saved him from losing his favorite body part and all of its precious contents as a sword whined overhead. Abandoning his weapons in the corpse, Claude blindly leapt forward to evade the next strike, accidently tackling several pairs of legs and feeling a squirming body fall backwards on top of him. The Golden Deer House Leader felt himself being pressed into the gory muck and wiggled desperately, trying to rise up and not die ignominiously with a sword in his back as men fought and died in a mad, bloody scrum. _A Princely pincushion, hee-hee-hee_ , his panicking mind giggled to itself.

A skidding, deep grunt and a crash announced the presence of Raphael nearby. Claude crawled and kicked in every direction, unable to see from the ground, his arms unable to find purchase in the slick, the pressure increasing as more armored bodies fell on top of him. A ferocious, impressively vulgar curse meant Leonie was here too. _Loyal to the Leicester Liar,_ hummed his overactive brain on an alliterative tangent. _Let that be the epitaph of your “friends” in the Golden Deer House._

He was beginning to suffocate in the muck from all the weight above him. When had he last drawn air? What was air? _Air was part of the sky, like the wind brushing your face when you rode your first wyvern, and the sky and clouds are so pretty…_

“CLAUDE!” A voice rising into a scream.

_Oh, Hilda was here and dead with him too. That was a shame. She was so pretty. Smelled nice, too. Always. She was thoughtful like that._

There was a roaring boom with screams, with a brief wave of heat. A loud neighing from a horse. Odd noises to hear in the afterlife. Then somehow, for some reason, he felt bright light and drops of rain on his face. A gentle hand was wiping his face clean, clearing his nose and mouth of mud and blood. He gasped and tried to draw in deep breath, but hitched and coughed wetly from the wound in his side, doubling over from the waves of pain. Broken ribs in the lungs. That was bad, right? He remembered an anatomy lesson on battlefield injuries saying that was bad. Voices drifted through the fog of his mind.

“Oh, Claude...you stupid idiot…”

“Marianne? Where is Lady Marianne?!”

“She ain’t here. Someone will have to run up and get her…”

“Get him out of here, guys...we’ll cover you…”

Drawing breath with only his right lung--the left wasn’t inflating properly--Claude managed to wheeze to the dim faces above him, “Guys, get out of here. Run. I’m not worth it. Really…”

“Claude, if you weren’t about to die, I would smack you so hard right now…!” Hilda’s voice sounded wet.

“Shit. Here come more of them…” groaned Leonie.

“Lady Hilda, bring your mighty axe to bear! Now is the hour of the Golden Deer!” announced Lorenz.

“Ha! That sounds awesome, Lorenz! You a poet or something?” boomed Raphael in a cheerful laugh.

Claude tried to raise his head from where Hilda had gently rested it. He couldn’t see anything except Hilda’s legs as she fought for him, her hamstrings and calves flexing powerfully in a way that any red-blooded Almyran would shamelessly admire. The clashing rings and yells of combat rose in harmony with Lorenz’s chanting spell casting, followed by detonations. He whispered to his classmates in vain, “No...don’t die...for me..I’m just...” _I’m just your secret enemy. You're dying for a spy, you idiots! A snake in your midst. I’m planning on taking you over! Did you know that? You’re going to die for someone you hate! For someone who lies to your face everyday, as easy as breathing! I hate you! I hate all of you! Why are you so_ nice _to me_?

_Breathing...it’s starting to get hard. Really hard._

Then he heard a series of rapid thudding blows, intermixed with the screams of dying men. A new voice he didn’t recognize, but male. Almost gravelly. “Hey, kids! Great day for a war, isn’t it? I like it when it gets wet n’ wild! Crazier that way!”

“Um, Hilda? Who in the name of Saint Fucking Seiros is this winking asshole?”

“Cute, little boy, real cute. You kiss your mama with that mouth?”

“Oh, you are so fucking dead…”

“Leonie, wait! Raphael, hold her! All right, Baltie! What are you doing here?”

“Followed you, ‘course. Holst would go down in history as Fodlan’s Finest Torturer if I let you get killed. Hey wait, who’s that under you?”

“This is Lord Claude von Riegan, you uncouth rowdy. He needs a healer immediately, so if you would kindly remove your less-than-desirable presence…”

“Wait, that’s the famous Claude?! Oooh boy...this is too rich…the Goddess must be laughing her ass off right now...”

Claude’s thoughts spiraled down into darkness. But before they did, he heard a dreadful, screaming roar. A voice crying “NO!” over the battlefield in a wounded, enraged wail.

_Oh no. Dimitri...something...must...have...happened..._

*

Petra’s heart thudded and her pulse sang in her ears. This is what she was born to do. No Fodlander noble could spit in the eye of Brigid royalty after this battle. She stood amongst these pale, Crest bearing strangers on foreign soil, and fought as their equal.

Gaspard men sneered at her hair and her skin, laughing and smiling as they saw her smaller, shorter sword wielded before them and then tried to end her life. Their clumsy blows never reached her, and then her blade drove itself into their throats. Their hearts. Their eyes. Each time, she saw the recognition in their faces, the knowledge that they were fighting a true Brigid warrior too late to save them. Then she was the one smiling.

Felix smiled with her. He understood the way the warrior and his blades chimed musically with hers, a deadly ballet that no other she had met in this land could share with her. When he spun to his right, she did as well, trading opponents and finishing their bewildered foes off with an unanticipated strike. When she lunged forward for the killing blow, he leapt backwards, keeping their backs together, their shared body heat connecting them with an unbreakable vow of trust. As long as they stayed together, nothing could touch them. Petra’s heart sang at just the thought of it, wondering if Felix felt the same.

They battled on through the melee, even as the lines collapsed and chaos ruled the battlefield, killing with ease. Then Petra’s foot crunched unexpectedly on something on the ground, sending her into the slightest of stumbles. A nudge from Felix’s sword-wielding fist righted her. She grimaced mentally at what she had stepped in, but kept her face composed as a queen as she faced the rider ahead of them. No other fighting was near; by now, even Lonato’s own men had begun to fear him.

She was not impressed by the grimacing, twitching old man in plate armor she saw before her. Lonato’s bloodshot eyes bulged from his head, and veins pulsed and throbbed on his neck. Petra instead focused on the strange, Spirit-cursed weapon in his right hand. The one that had broken the vast gate of Garreg Mach.

Felix straightened beside her, his dark silken hair hanging around his face as he sneered at the old Knight. “It’s over, Lonato. Christophe isn’t coming back. But don’t worry. You’ll see him soon enough,” he called out scornfully.

The crazed man smiled back through red stained teeth and returned the insult. “Felix...Fraldarius,” tasting the name on his lips. “The second best son of a second best House. I remember when Sir Glenn was already a full King’s Knight at your age, not prancing about and hiding behind a foreigner’s skirt.”

Felix snarled and tensed at those words, but Petra _tched_ her tongue and hissed sharply, “Felix!” He calmed and turned his head slightly to her as she motioned with her eyes. Soon, he saw it as well. Princess Edelgard and Professor Jeralt were fighting to join them to her left. His eyes flickered as well, and she saw from her peripheral vision the tall forms of Prince Dimitri and Dedue battling to his right. She even thought she saw the red glow of Knight Catherine’s Thunderbrand nearby. If they could only hold Lonato’s attention a few more moments longer, then he might be brought down by all of them, his cursed coward’s weapon be damned.

“It pains me to be forced to kill children,” said Lonato, unaware of their silent communication. “But you are too far gone in Rhea’s influence to be saved. May the Goddess have mercy on your souls.” He pointed the glowing spear tip at them.

It flashed.

Petra and Felix were already moving, their coiled leg muscles propelling them to each side as they dodged the magical strike. Even so, the backlash of energy flung them through the air, their bodies cut harshly against fallen armor and bones on the ground and their weapons lost. Petra raised her eyes, squinting from where blood was dripping into her vision. Lonato was laughing and readying his weapon again, pointing it at Felix where he had fallen in a dazed landing, the edges of his sparse clothing and armor smoking. She rose with a snarl and searched frantically for her ninjato.

Jeritza strode past her, his sword raised in salute to the man on the horse, his half-cape flapping in the rainswept breeze.

“Lord Lonato,” said the Combat Professor in a deep voice. “Your death is here.”

Lonato shifted the aim of his lance at Jeritza. “Bold words, pawn of Rhea.”

Jeritza laughed and Petra shuddered. No human voice should sound so lifeless. “You are a fool, Lonato. You are nothing to your so-called 'Western Church.' Be glad it is me. I will make it quick for you.”

Petra watched in wonder at the Professor’s boldness. His stride did not falter, nor did he make any move to defend himself.

Lonato growled at Jeritza and ignited his sparking weapon to fire again.

As it struck Jeritza, a glowing orange nimbus surrounded him. Jeritza leaned forward with a growl, driving the edge of his blade into the white beam of energy, a mysterious gem on his chest glowing like the rising sun. The lance in Lonato’s hand fizzled and spat burning arcs of wild lightning. Lonato’s voice raised into insane shriek as he shouted, “No! No Relic shall stop me now! I have this sacred weapon, blessed by the Goddess! The Arrow of Indech! Die!”

Another explosion and backlash of energy. Jeritza sailed through the air, above Petra, the red-orange nimbus still making his body glow. He gracefully flipped and landed in a low crouch dozens of feet away, but did not lose his footing or his weapon. Slowly, he rose once more and began his advance again.

“Lonato!” 

Petra had just found her sword when she saw Jeralt and Edelgard lean into a charge at Lonato’s blindside, axe and lance raised. Lonato twisted his saddle and screamed, enraged beyond reason. “You! Traitor!! Rhea’s puppet! Perish in the eternal fires!” And he managed to raise his weapon to fire at them from point blank range.

“No!” Petra felt herself scream for Edelgard. But that was eclipsed by a far stronger, and far louder cry, from Prince Dimitri, that seemed to echo and reverberate through all of the Oghma mountains.

“ _NO!!_ ”

Lonato might have still struck him down before the Prince was upon him, but he gloated for a little too long at the sight of the two smoking bodies before him. By the time he turned to see who had childishly screamed like that on the battlefield, it was too late.

She saw Loanto’s eyes widen. “Your Highness--” he started.

HIs face locked into a feral snarl, Dimitri leapt forward and tore the glowing, sparking lance from Lonato’s hand. Then he tore Lonato bodily from his horse, dragging the screaming old man from the saddle to the ground, as the terrified horse, finally free of its rider, sprang instantly towards freedom. Jeritza watched for a long moment, then shrugged and searched for more opponents.

“Shit. Here we go again,” muttered a recovered Felix next to her.

Lonato’s last words were a pitiful beg, his broken arm raised above him. “My King...I surrender…”

“Surrender? SURRENDER!?” screamed Dimitri. Dimitri’s wrath was building to a tall, towering thing, something that Petra could almost taste in the air. Dedue staggered to his Prince’s side, attempting to calm him, but Dimitri easily knocked his retainer back with one hand. The cursed weapon sparked and flashed one last time in Dimitri’s steaming hands, before the Prince raised the weapon high up and brought it down on his knee. There was a bright flash, and then the dull broken ends were carelessly tossed aside. “For killing the last of my family, Lonato, that is for your surrender,” Dimitri hissed evilly.

The Prince’s gauntlets were blackened claws, but Dimitri was beyond pain as he leaned over Lonato, savoring the old Lord’s fear. “An animal like you doesn’t deserve to die by a weapon,” promised Dimitri slowly. With a cruel, hysterical laugh, he then dove to the ground above the fallen lord, hands gouging and tearing and ripping. Lonato’s voice rose into a high pitched scream of agony.

Felix was the first to ignore the murderous tableau, giving Petra a rough shove away and sheathing his wakizashi, shifting his katana into a two-handed grip. “Get out of here,” he said to her behind him. “I’ll hold the boar off. He’ll attack anyone when he’s like this.”

Petra gasped at the dismissal. Did Felix not think she was worthy? “Felix…”

His amber eyes blazed back at her from his scowling face, even as Lonato continued to scream. “Damn you, Petra, just go! This is Faerghus’ problem, not yours!”

She rushed forward to him. He moved to push her back again. They crashed together.

Her face leaned forward of her own volition. His face was already down to meet hers as they roughly kissed, lips bruising and teeth clashing, as their free hands each clutched tightly at their hair. It was a kiss of war, with bared blades and cries of death and pain all around them. The taste was of sweat and blood and smoke and steel. To Petra, it was a bouquet more intoxicating than any wine. The Flame Spirit made its fire in her belly, and she welcomed the feel of a trained killer’s body pressed hard against her own. 

She jerked her face back quickly as they both gasped for air, inhaling each others’ scent. “Felix,” she said as they panted. “Do you know what is the meaning of two warriors who do the kissing on the battlefield? In Brigid?” She smiled broadly at him as she withdrew, licking their mixed blood with relish from her torn lips, bringing her sword back up and ready. “I am staying by your side,” she proudly declared. She would have to explain to him later. But for now...

The baffled look on Felix’s face was quite the amusement.

*

“I know it’s not much for a Lady, but it’s the least we can do…”

“Thank you, dear innkeep. She does appreciate it. We won’t be in your hair for long. She just needs to recover her strength,” smiled Dorothea in the doorway, tossing a lock behind her face and smiling sweetly, even though she wanted the fat little man gone and away.

The innkeep smiled and looked as if he wanted to say more, but an assistant ran up and whispered something into his ear. The man smiled widely and finally turned away, saying, “Oh good, the Sausage Making Guild is here! Yes, yes, we need to clean up that mess in the street once it’s safe…”

Dorothea very hurriedly closed the door and leaned hard against the jamb. She breathed slowly and evenly, trying not to be sick. She of all people understood what it was like not to be picky about food, but after hearing that she didn’t think she was ever going to eat another sausage in her life. She would rather starve. Starvation was very principled and genteel in the face of that.

She turned in the small, dingy room where Ingrid lay propped up on the single bed. She was looking out the window, looking small and vulnerable despite still wearing her breastplate and armguards. She didn’t turn and look at Dorothea.

The songstress thought she understood what was going on. A lot had just happened between them. It was time for them to talk about it.

Oddly, Dorothea decided she didn’t care. There were some things more important than relationships. She decided she would rather have her Ingrid alive and safe above all else in this world.

Of course, that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to take one last chance.

Feeling somewhat liberated and ready for anything, Dorothea knelt beside the edge of the bed, resting her arms and head on the mattress. _Hmm. Feather._ Probably their nicest room, with a window view too, she thought, gazing up at Ingrid’s profile. Those bangs hid her face, but the rest of her blonde hair was quite smooth and silken, when she bothered to wash it correctly…

“I’m leaving the Academy.”

Okay, so maybe Dorothea wasn’t ready for everything. “What?! Why? What’s--” she stammered, her face gobsmacked.

A sniffle. “I got expelled,” said Ingrid quietly. She still didn’t look at Dorothea.

Dorothea focused now on calming herself. Ingrid was obviously bottling up a lot; it wouldn’t do for Dorothea to lose her wits as well. Instead, she said as mildly as possible, “You can tell me. If you want.”

Ingrid’s green eyes turn to her own, then down to her hands. She was picking at her nails and slowly started speaking. “Knight Shamir and Knight Beatrix made it with some others to the monastery. And Leonie managed to run back and warn them to close the gates. The students were ordered to muster at the gate with the Knights. And I was getting on my armor and I...remembered you and the others were shopping. In town.” Ingrid paused in her story.

“For the opera,” Dorothea prompted, smiling.

The noblewoman smiled fleetingly. “Yeah. The opera,” she whispered.

“It’s still on, if you want to go,” said Dorothea with another smile, but the tease fell flat. Professor Manuela and the rest of them would have no time for operas in the Cathedral. Not for a while.

Ingrid was looking away again, but her fingers were still restless. _Pick. Pick. Pick._ “I would have liked for the chance to dress up with you,” she muttered. “I guess I’ll have to learn on my own, now.”

Dorothea looked up at Ingrid in slowly growing horror and shame, suddenly feeling like the most wretched, worthless thing in the world. It didn’t take a genius to figure things out. The students were ordered to muster at the gate. Ingrid wasn’t at the gate. She was here, instead, in a room with Dorothea at an inn. Cadets who did not follow orders, especially during live battle, were expelled. She was giving up her dream of being Knight. She was going back home, where she was expected to marry a man she did not know and probably wouldn’t love just for money to save her noble family. She had nearly died. Her most prized possession and beloved pet, her beautiful and probably very expensive mount, was being cut up for sausage meat outside this inn at this very moment. They would likely never see each other again. All of this was the price for saving Dorothea’s life. 

Dorothea was not most definitely not ready for _anything_.

Sour bile covered her tongue, and she lunged for the nearby night soil bucket as she felt her muscles punish all over as she _heaved,_ vomiting up everything inside her in an endless stream as if she had ingested poison. But no, _she_ was the poison, she thought to herself as her skull pounded and insides churned as she clutched the sides of the bucket in absolute despair. She was poison to everything she touched. To anyone she genuinely cared about. Her filthy, smutty infatuation with this beautiful noblewoman had cost her _everything_ and had condemned her to a life of misery. _But at least she was alive, right? Wasn’t life all that matters?_ her mind smugly mocked her earlier words.

“Dorothea! Are you all right?” Ingrid cried in alarm as she placed a warm hand on her back. _No, no, don’t touch me that’s wrong, you don’t KNOW what you’re touching…_ she thought in black despair as she reteched again, a thin stream of bilewater coming up.

“Hang on! I can ring for someone...or shout for help…”

“No!” Dorothea shouted, lunging up and grabbing Ingrid, vomit smeared on her mouth and snot and tears covering her face, looking into her eyes. “Kill me,” she pleaded desperately, stupidly.

Ingrid jerked back in shock and surprise, falling back on the bed.

 _Yes, that’s right_. _Good. Get away from me. Get away from the disgusting thing._

Dorthea sat back on the floor and hung her head, pulling at her hair. Pain was good, because it hurt the thing that hurt Ingrid. “Just kill me. I’m the most worthless garbage in the world. I did this to you Ingrid. It’s my fault. I deserve it.”

“What are you _saying_ Dorothea?” said Ingrid’s voice, purely bewildered. “I really don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand?!” exclaimed Dorothea, raising her voice, not bothering to wipe her face or hair. “It’s my fault you got expelled! It’s my fault you’re going home! It’s because of me you won’t be a Knight! I can’t take that! I’d rather be dead and in the stomach of some disgusting monster because that’s what I _deserve_ rather than seeing you sacrifice everything in your life just for some commoner shit like me!” she wept in misery.

“Dorothea, please calm down. Come here. It’s okay.”

Ingrid’s voice was a soothing croon, and despite her disgusting body, her disgusting behavior, Dorothea fell and cried against Ingrid’s knees as the noblewoman gently brushed her hair and rubbed her back. She hiccoughed and sniffled against the warmth of Ingrid’s thighs, pushing down her own dark thoughts and feelings once more. Maybe Ingrid would forgive her one day. Maybe she would forgive herself one day. She said it was okay, didn’t she? It was okay to feel like this, because you could only feel this while you were alive, right? And survival is a day to day thing.

After a short while, Ingrid said gently, “Dorothea. Please look at me.”

Pausing to finally pull her hair back and wipe her face with her hands, Dorothea said with a small laugh, “Goodness, I must like a fright.” But she raised her face to Ingrid’s, beginning to smile…

Ingrid slapped her face. Hard.

Dorothea fell back on her rump in shock, feeling stinging, searing heat on her cheek as it throbbed. She looked back up at Ingrid.

Ingrid’s eyes were blazing with jade fire, looking every inch the furious teenage noblewoman as she pointed a shaking finger at Dorothea. “Listen to me, Dorothea Arnault. _You are never to say those words again_. Ever. In my presence or outside of it. Nod if you understand.”

Dorothea raised a hand to her swollen cheek, feeling her teeth begin to pulsate. She slowly nodded.

Ingrid wasn’t done. “You want to know whose life I saved? I saved Dorothea Arnault’s. The Mystical Songstress, who was going to dazzle all of Garreg Mach tonight with her beautiful voice, and look damn good while doing it. The only commoner who made it into the Black Eagle House, based on her own Goddess-damned strength of will alone. _That_ was whose life I saved, not some blubbering child whose entire world falls apart because she can’t _respect other people’s decisions.”_

Tears were leaking from Dorothea’s eyes once more, but she nodded again firmly at Ingrid, hoping she wouldn’t mind the lapse.

Ingrid finally broke eye contact. “Shamir tried to stop me one last time before I headed into battle with Snowmane, you know. I could have stopped. Obeyed orders. Maybe just have gotten demerits,” she said in sad reflection. She looked back at Dorothea. “But I flew away instead. And Shamir said to me, ‘You’ll never be a Knight, Ingrid.’ Her exact words. And you know what I did? I kept flying anyway. Because saving you and everyone else was worth it to me.”

“But it’s not,” whispered Dorothea, shaking her aching head. “Can’t you see…? I’m not…”

The Galatean noblewoman, Lady Ingrid, regally ignored her pleas, her smooth face composed, but tears were gathering her own eyes at last. But her voice was clear and firm and hard as steel. “It was my decision. I made it with full knowledge of the consequences. And if you care about me at all...then you’ll respect that. Respect me.”

“Oh, Ingrid...I will, I always will,” Dorothea muttered, sitting cross-legged and burying her face in her hands. “But this guilt. I don’t think I’ll be able to shake it anytime soon. I wanted more than anything to make you happy and see you follow your dream. Instead...it’s just a mess, now. And…” Dorothea swallowed and hesitated, but after everything that had happened already, what more could make it worse? She started again, and said quietly, “And I think I’ll miss you. A great deal.”

There. Let her Ingrid read into that what she may.

The response both raised and crushed her hopes. “I’ll miss you too…’Thea. I think I always will. For the...rest of my life,” said Ingrid in shaky voice, with a hard swallow of her own.

Dorothea looked up in wild desire, her face still smeared and Ingrid’s handprint still on her cheek and still feeling like a sewage drain but maybe it wouldn’t matter, maybe they still could…

Ingrid was weeping freely herself now, her shoulders hunched and shaking, her face beginning to turn red.

Dorothea reached out her hand.

Ingrid shook her head, too fast. But she shook it again. She looked down to her thighs, her hands gripping her knees, rocking back and forth, shaking her blonde head over and over.

Dorothea let her hand fall.

She knew, now. They felt the same. But Ingrid was no longer going to be a Knight. She was going to become Lady Ingrid. She was going to be a noblewoman, and noblewomen had to obey rules and their menfolk and society’s expectations. Ingrid had a family to think of and a castle that demanded upkeep and soldiers who expected board and pay and peasant folk who needed protection from bandits and wolves. It was the invisible chain of nobility, an anchor of legacy and tradition and expectations that they were compelled to meet from the day they were born.

Dorothea was a commoner, and she was free. Free to drink drainwater and eat dead sparrows and rats, roasted over small fires made of garbage set in alleys or under bridges. Free to have no family at all. She could be with anyone she pleased, even noblemen if they decided she was their cup of tea.

But not a noblewoman. Especially not a Crest bearing noblewoman. That would be a waste. Even if Dorothea followed her to Castle Galatea, taking whatever work she could find there, she knew Ingrid would forbid it, and shut her out. For both of their sakes’.

Ingrid was sitting at the edge of bed, crying. Dorothea sat at the foot of the bed, wanting to cry but now too numb to do so. Ingrid saw her in that way. Her feelings were requited. These things would have delighted her and made her so happy an hour ago.

But now they had never felt further apart.

*

Catherine leapt off Lorenz's horse as soon as she saw Lonato’s grey head over the general melee, not caring where the Golden Deer cadets were going. She was going to finish this, once and for all. Lonato’s execution was far overdue.

Grinning savagely with every slash of Thunderbrand, the Holy Knight knifed her way through Lonato’s militia, cutting them down two at a time, daring any fool to strike Thunder Catherine in the back. It would be the last thing they ever did.

A lance stabbed her left thigh. She hacked the shaft, cutting off the rest away from the blade still embedded in her quadriceps, then slashed the forearms off the rebel who struck her. She left him screaming as she ripped the offensive splinter from her flesh and kept moving.

A bolt punched through her armor, breaking her shoulderguard. It only steered her towards her next target, the crossbowman frantically trying to reload as she chopped through his fellows like so much meat in her way, before she lunged forward with a thrust, skewering the idiot archer through his chest. She shook the corpse off her Relic and ripped the broken armor from her right shoulder, fingers groping for the feathered shaft. It had only gone through her deltoid. Grimacing, she pushed it through and tossed the blood soaked projectile aside.

Lonato was close now. She was almost there…she could see Petra and Felix talking with the crazy nobleman...

“Claude!” yelled a familiar voice, high pitched in panic.

Catherine’s head turned to see a silver haired boy in a blue cadet uniform being overwhelmed by two soldiers. He still had his bow, firing arrows point blank that sometimes missed badly as the men ducked aside at the last moment or only grazed them. He was going to die if she didn’t do something. _Ashe…_

_Christophe’s brother…_

She was almost to Lonato. But redemption for the dead woman, Cassandra Rubens Charon, lay in another direction.

Turning her back on the Gaspard lord, she growled and staggered towards the two men and the young noble heir. A young soldier ran to attack her, thinking she was wounded and weakened.

Four swipes of Thunderbrand later, Catherine left the pile of body parts behind her, moving on.

The Gaspard fools attacking Ashe obviously didn’t recognize him. Or else they were too blood crazed to notice. Ashe was wounded and down, his bow shaft broken into shreds. The first soldier drove a boot into his back as he grasped the silver mane in his left to cut Ashe’s throat with his sword.

Thunderbrand hummed through the air as Catherine cut him in half, cauterizing the torso before it even had time to bleed.

A roaring sweep of the red Relic disarmed the other soldier of his lance, who screamed and ran off. Catherine huffed in disgust but didn’t bother to pursue. Limping over to kneel beside Ashe’s body, and leaning a bit on Thunderbrand for support, she gently rolled the kid over.

Ashe’s mud and blood smeared face was staring fixedly at the sky, but soon the shock wore off and his earnest green eyes found her face. He gave her a weak smile through his freckles that made Catherine’s decision feel entirely worth it. “Catherine. Thank you. Is Lonato…?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I’m just glad you’re safe, Ashe,” she smiled down at the kid, resisting the urge to reach down and tossle that adorable silver hair. She didn’t want to get any blood in it and have it lose its luster.

They both froze when they heard Dimitri’s scream. Catherine quickly stood, looking back, and soon then they heard Lonato’s death cry moments later. Catherine slowly drawled, “I think it’s safe to say your stepfather is dead. By Dimitri’s hand.”

Ashe sat up with a choking groan. “Poor Dimitri. It wasn’t his responsibility…”

Beginning to disagree, Catherine suddenly found it was hard to say anything. Something was inside of her, making it hard to breathe and speak. She stared with detached interest with the bloody sword tip poking forth from her gut. _Huh. So that’s what it feels like._ Then everything was starting to tilt sideways, and that was kind of funny, and she would have giggled, but she still couldn’t breathe...

“Catherine!” Ashe screamed, from far away and far above her.

Another voice. The voice of her slayer. “My Lord! It is me, Captain Marcus. Your noble father’s servant! Come with me, my Lord! We must retreat from here!”

“No! You killed her! You killed her, you bastard, she saved me and you killed her!”

“My Lord…! This is for your own good!”

The voices and the world were fading to fast pinpoints of light. But Catherine had time for one last thought.

_Heh. Shammy’s going to be so fucking pissed at me._

*

Shamir was so fucking pissed at Catherine.

Even from the ramparts, they all clearly heard the screams from the Prince. Ignatz turned wildly in a panic and ran down the stairs as fast as he could for some reason. She had always suspected that the merchant's kid was too skittish for prolonged battle. Hubert teleported away in a storm swirling violet light, which for some _other_ reason sent Lysithea into an explosive, jealous tirade. And while she was impressed with the small magician girl’s iron-willed demeanor after what she had barely escaped earlier, she suspected it was a thinly veiled facade. After asking the magician in a lull in battle if she was ready to be up and about so soon, the albino girl turned to her and sneered, “What do you want me to do? Get out my dolly and show you where the bad men touched me? Sniffle and hug you and go boo hoo? Don’t be asinine. We’ve got a battle to win. I don’t have time to dwell on it.”

Catherine had warned her that Lady Ordelia was a brat. Even so, Shamir thought her partner was underselling it. That kid was going to be a legendary noble bitch when she grew up.

Shading her eyes in the low afternoon sun, Shamir saw that most of Lonato’s army was in full rout with the death of their Lord. Scanning the field, she saw the Golden Deer gathered in a tight group with most standing and able to defend themselves... _good_...Linhardt and Marianne and the Sisters trying to move through their wounded and heal them, with Bernadetta guarding them from stragglers... _okay_...and a struggling Ashe was being carried off by a Gaspard Knight, away from a fallen Knight of Seiros on the field, with a dimly glowing red bone sword…

Shamir’s breath seized and her heart nearly stopped. _Catherine._

White-hot rage warred with incandescent fear. _This woman was going to kill her._ Shamir felt like she was going to die of an aneurysm before she turned thirty. Her breathing became ragged and her stomach twisted into knots. _This always happens when I’m not there to watch her back, damn it..._

She instantly turned to Lysithea, who had finally stopped floating and was leaning hard on the wet stone parapet. “Lysithea!” she barked, leaping down to the walkway. “Can you do that teleportation spell Hubert just cast?”

The albino’s pink eyes glared up to her as she twirled a strand of white hair. “Yes, but not very far…”

Shamir’s teeth ground together. “Can you get me to Linhardt? Or Marianne? On the field? I need a healer with a Crest, damnit!” she demanded hotly.

The teenager opened her mouth to snap back, then snapped it shut and swung her eyes to look at the field. Maybe she noticed Shamir’s eyes getting moist, or the raw panic on her face. Lysithea paused and rested her chin to a small hand as she thought. “Maybe...I can get you to Linhardt…? At least close to him.”

Shamir cleared the space around her and stood before Lysithea, slinging her bow over her neck. “Do it,” she ordered, closing her eyes.

“Okay. Be ready for some disorienta…”

“...tion.”

_Blip._

“...tion.”

The Dagdan staggered on the bloody mud of the field, bile rising in her mouth and feeling a dizziness that would not abate. For an instant, she felt like she had been existing in two places at the same time, as if there were two different Shamirs feeling each other’s body and spirit, loves and fears. Dragging in a harsh breath of the battlefield stench with her nose, she spit her mouth clean as the familiar smell calmed her. She tried to get her bearings as fast as possible.

“...and...there. All done. You should be able to walk again. Don’t thank me all at once.”

“Oh! Um...yes, thank you, Lord Hevring…”

Twisting behind her, she instantly saw the grass green hair of Linhardt, kneeling over his current patient, a wounded Knight. Grabbing a fistful of those green strands, Shamir hauled Linhardt to his feet and marched to her destination, zeroing in to where she had seen Catherine’s body, the Black Eagle cadet stumbling behind her.

“Ow...why...hello...um, ouch...Knight Shamir…”

Shamir was not in the mood for any lip. “Shut up, you sleepy little sarcastic shit. I need you to heal someone.”

“Well...far be it from me to teach you human kindness and empathy...but maybe yanking my hair out is not the best motivating tactic?” whined Linhardt.

Shamir let him go, but they were already close enough. Shamir took a single glance at the extent of the belly wound and blood pool beneath her as she shoved Linhardt forward to her partner, before turning her back on the sight. She didn’t want to see her like this. Better to imagine Catherine in her memories for the rest of her life than seeing that blood and shit stained sword impaling her. And Catherine was lying still. Too still.

She heard Linhardt squelch down to his knees beside her partner, and his quick intake of breath. “Oh...wow...so,um, Shamir...you’re not giving me a lot to work with here...”

“Is she dead?” Shamir felt her voice go even flatter, more void of emotion as she blinked them away. _Never again. I promised to myself that I would never do this again._

“Well, she’s alive...barely,” Linhardt muttered clinically. “Whoever left their sword in her actually did her a favor. It doesn’t have a fuller, see, in the blade. That’s the only thing that kept her from bleeding out. But...um, I can’t heal her with the, ah, sword...still inside of her. I need someone to slide it out of her...gently, mind you.”

Shamir took in a deep breath. Shuddered briefly. Ran a black gloved hand through her violet hair.

Turning back, she walked over to Catherine, helping Linhardt roll her body to its side before she straddled her partner’s cool bloody thigh above where she would have to work. She gripped the sword by the crosspiece and the razor sharp tip, trying to ignore Catherine’s firm body. Detached. Clinical. She could do this.

“Gentle fast or gentle slow?” she ground out to the young mage.

Linhardt raised glowing hands over Catherine’s torso. “Hmm...let’s try...gentle medium. I’m ready if you are.”

Shamir swore to every Dagdan god there was that she was going to throttle Linhardt after this. But she concentrated and tried to do as he asked.

*

“No! Edelgard! Father!” Knight Byleth screamed into his neck. They saw it happen from a distance, the ground whipping past them as Ferdinand’s horse extended into a full gallop.

“Fly, Beiaard! Hi-yah!” Ferdinand shouted as he spurred his loyal steed, and somehow they went even faster.

They had seen Dimitri’s berserk rage. Lonato’s fall. Then the madness of the Faerghus Prince, as Dimitri flung pieces of Lonato everywhere and ran wildly in search of more opponents to kill, screaming and laughing all the while. Dedue, Felix, and Petra ran after him in pursuit. But Ferdinand had eyes only for the two fallen bodies near Lonato’s shredded remains.

_They cannot be dead. She cannot be dead. A Prime Minister is nothing without an Emperor._

The horse’s snorting gasps were coming too quickly now, and Ferdinand started to rein Beiaard in to save his exhausted friend, still a hundred yards away from the scene. Byleth let out a heaving moan as she leapt from the back of the mount, risking injury from a hoof but reckless enough to do so. Ferdinand looked behind him to see her safely roll in his mount’s wake, already running into a sprint to try to get past them as quickly as possible. Ferdinand leaned back more gently, easing Beiaard into a trot, then a walk before he leapt down himself. He unhitched his friend’s saddle and bridle as quickly as he could, letting his exhausted horse fully recover its wind, then ran to where Byleth was kneeling between her father and Edelgard.

To his surprise, Hubert was suddenly there as well, leaning over them as well. _Where had he come from…?_

As he approached, he could see the full extent of the Professor and Edelgard’s injuries. Surely only their Crest lineages had kept them this intact compared to others, as no spare inch of their skin had been spared from whatever horrific magic Lonato’s weapon had wrought. Their armor was still hot, steaming and smoking their flesh even now. Edelgard lay almost in repose, her fingers still clutching her axe above her head, her white hair shriveled and curling as if it had been fried. Captain Jeralt’s gauntlets were fused with his lance on his chest, and his face as a mass of red and black. If they were still alive, they had only seconds remaining.

Ferdinand watched with tears in his own eyes at Lady Byleth’s small soft sounds of pain, her blue hair covering her face like a shroud. But she composed herself quickly as she reached out to teach both her friend and her father with each hand, her head lowering in prayer as she had done earlier with Lady Ingrid. Her fingers hissed from the contact on each of them, but she did not withdraw. The Lord Vestra was baffled by her actions as he fumbled for a bright purple potion from his belt pocket, a frown on his unblinking face as he considered her. He finally turned to address his classmate. “My Lord Aegir, please inform the smelly little lesbian that she can weep over her father’s corpse some other time. Now, before I blast her to ash. Lady Edelgard needs this Elixir immediately.”

Ferdinand eagerly strode forward, tensing his muscles.

Hubert smiled.

Ferdinand gave his most charming smile back.

And then slammed his gauntleted fist into Hubert’s nose with all of his armored weight, shattering everything beneath it.

Hubert gave a coughing, retching shriek as he fell backwards, the Elixir falling to the mud.

Ferdinand gave a small glance to Lady Byleth, noting in relief as the silver light was starting to flare forth again. He immediately then begged forgiveness in his mind from Holy Sothis for his moment of disbelief. If he had any doubts of the certainty of his faith, they had been banished by what he witnessed earlier in town.

And what he was witnessing again now. The glowing hands. The silver fire. Ferdinand would have knelt and bowed his head in supplication before Lady Byleth, but he had to keep an eye on Hubert.

His fears were justified. Despite the horrific damage to his face, Hubert quickly was sitting up in the filth and glaring at him, while the other clutched his nose. His sly eyes promised nothing but murder as he aimed a dark glowing hand at Ferdinand, utterly ignorant to the miracle happening a few feet away from him.

Ferdinand only looked blandly interested at Hubert’s actions, shifting his stance to bring his plated boot on top of the glass-bottled Elixir on the ground.

Hubert’s eyes went wide and alarmed as they had ever been, but finally he dropped his hand and turned his head, finally intrigued by what was happening to his mistress, as the glowing silver light swept over all of them.

*

Dimitri laughed maniacally as he caught a fleeing Gaspard militiaman’s arm, his blackened fingers tight as vises on the soldier’s forearm. The man screamed and pleaded and dropped his sword, begging for quarter and mercy, but Dimitri merely snarled in his face then suddenly started spinning in place in the slick mud, flinging the screaming man around and around, faster and faster. With a heave Dimitri released the man, and his scream rose higher and fainter in pitch as he flew through the air, landing nearly a hundred feet away with a sickening crash. With a gleeful snarl, the Prince of Faerghus bounded away to find new victims.

“Spirits Below!” gasped Petra as they chased after the Faerghus Prince. “How is he become...so quick? So fast?”

“The boar’s mind loses all sense of limits like this,” muttered Felix, feeling the fatigue himself, as well as a growing sense of frustration and failure as they ran across the battlefield. “I think his madness locks his Crest in place in his mind, or something. Eventually we have to capture him and hold him down, or wound him enough so he’s incapacitated. He comes around after he’s been immobilized in place long enough. Usually.”

Surprise from Petra. “You have done this many times?”

“Ever since the Tragedy. It’s been two years since my last one,” said Felix with a shrug. “What about you, dog?”

“His Highness...suffered an episode last year. On your brother’s birthday,” said Dedue reluctantly. Despite his heavy armor, he kept up with their pace, his only sign of fatigue a sheen of sweat on his brow and deep breathing.

Felix’s gaze turned sardonic as he looked to his ‘battle-girlfriend.’ Or whatever the hell they called these relationships in Brigid. ‘War-buddies?’ ‘Kissing-assassins?’

“See why I told you to run the other way?” he told her instead.

Petra laughed shortly with him as they ran. “You did not explain in fullness! Yet I am having no regrets, Felix!”

Felix’s thoughts turned dark. “You will,” he promised grimly. Petra only grinned.

They came upon another mangled corpse, twisted and ruined the hazy late afternoon sunlight. But at last they came closer, where Dimitri was engaged with a fleeing Gaspard Knight, fully armed and armored in heavy plate. These obstacles merely took a little longer for Dimitri. He accepted the long cut from an axe in his side, willingly pinning his foe’s weapon with his arm in exchange for ripping the shield out of the man’s other arm. Then he bashing him on the head with it, repeatedly, until the Knight fell unconscious. Dimitri kept bashing the body with the shield, bending the armor into unnatural shapes that began to ooze blood.

The trio pulled up short at the sight and the noise, forty paces away. “Shit,” Felix spat. “Now he’s got a weapon. It would be easier to cripple him if he was unarmed.”

Dedue stepped forward, securing his tower shield tighter against his arm and readying his axe. “I am best armored among us. Also, his Highness may recognize me. Eventually. He has before in the past,” he claimed.

“But you’re also the slowest. It’s too risky. You saw what the boar just did to that Knight,” insisted Felix, more out of a desire to argue and delay the inevitable confrontation, rather than any real concern for Dedue’s safety. The Fraldarius heir also very quietly acknowledged to himself that he did not want to be put in a position where he would have to choose between saving Dimitri, Dedue, or...or...

“Hm. There are large trees nearby in the wood,” said Petra speculatively to herself as she looked around. Their chase had brought them far enough away from the monastery to be close to the treeline to the local forest between the monastery and the town.

“So?” grunted Felix. Still, he was curious in what Petra was interested in. Mildly.

It must have shown on his face, because Petra smiled again at him, unwittingly capturing his heart, and then winking with her tattooed eye before bowing to him with her right hand on her heart. “Felix. If I die, bury me in style of my homeland,” she told him with a sincere smile. He blinked at the odd statement. She turned and slowly drew her ninjato, walking forward past him, where Dimitri was still punching iron and flesh into artistic shapes.

Felix blinked as the Brigid Princess strolled ahead. Was she... _sashaying_? To him? After...after...he didn’t know what that kiss was. A joke? Did Brigiders even joke?

He really did not understand Petra. At all.

Deude leaned down to his ear and spoke quietly under his breath. “Please tell me she has a plan.”

Blinking owlishly, confused by a multitude of feelings, and definitely off balance, Felix shook his head back at Dedue without any scorn. “I don’t know. I guess we back her up.” He tried to make it not sound like a question.

Twenty paces from Dimitri, Petra tossed her purple braid behind her back and assumed a haughty poise. She called out loudly in a strong battlefield shout. “Prince Dimitri!! Look to me! I am leader of the Tragedy!!”

Felix nearly dropped his sword. His jaw came unhinged. _What is she DOING--?!_ his mind screamed.

Dimitri’s blue eyes snapped up and around at her, his blonde hair bloody and matted, his flanks heaving and dripping blood. He tensed over his kill, crabbing about on all fours.

“Oh, no,” said Felix.

“Oh, no,” agreed Dedue.

Petra yelled again, raising her sword. “I kill Queen Patricia! I kill friend Glenn!”

Dimitri _snarled_. It was probably audible all over Garreg Mach.

“Oh, shit,” said Felix.

“Oh, shit,” agreed Dedue.

Petra tensed to run and yelled one last time. “I kill King Lambert!”

Dimitri charged.

Petra turned her heel and ran as fast as she could past them, dropping her sword behind her.

“Oh, _fuck!”_ yelled Felix.

Dedue agreed wholeheartedly. “Yes. Oh. _Fuck._ ”.

Felix and Dedue tensed and brought their weapons up on guard, but Dimitri had no interest in them. He was solely focused on Petra, snarling and babbling as he leaned into a long strided mad sprint after his target.

“Goddess protect her,” prayed Felix, running after them, after sheathing his sword. He never prayed. His something, his whatever, his girlfriend, his Petra--the first girl he had ever kissed like that--was making him pray. 

“And the Flame Spirit,” said Dedue as he caught up, armor clanking. He saw Felix’s glance and shrugged, saying, “It cannot hurt. She will need it.”

“Yeah,” Felix agreed, trying to focus more on his breathing and keeping his strides even as they ran after them in the squelching mud. He realized he was now more concerned about Petra than he was about Dimitri.

As she had run past them, he could have sworn that madwoman was _laughing_.

*

Ignatz saw it. He saw it all too clearly, as he sprinted and stumbled down the gatehouse stairs, slipping on blood and stepping on bodies.

He had always had a talent for seeing things, despite his poor vision. He had noticed his father paler than usual one morning, and had insisted his mother call the doctor, despite his father’s blustering protests and his mother’s mentions of expense. The healer had come and discovered his father had a heart condition that would have killed him, but it could be healed with time and therapy. Another day when he had been in the shop with his brother, while their parents were out of town on a business trip, and he had seen the strange men loitering across the street that entire morning, and finally had pestered his brother until he called the city watch. Those men had been planning a robbery of the family store that very day, and were arrested.

Ignatz couldn’t do much by himself. He could only notice what needed to be done, and then find the right person to do it. He wasn’t very useful on his own.

That’s why he was running as fast as he could to find Marianne. 

Dimitri needed Marianne. She was going to be the only person that would calm him, that would stop his berzerk fit. Perhaps even permanently. He had seen it this morning on the monastery bridge to the Cathedral, when Lady Marianne von Edmund had healed the Prince of Faerghus’s mind and had given him peace and healing when no other soul could do so.

Ignatz panted as he slid on the slick stones in front of the shattered gate, his eyes drifting over the piles and piles of bodies strewn carelessly about in unnatural shapes, as if some childish god had stamped on an anthill. He shuddered and kept running, out from the gate and to the field, where Marianne should still be with the Holy Sisters, trying to heal the wounded Knights and monks and students still on the field. He looked around wildly for the teal blue hair, a student who could still heal while wearing a small chestplate.

There! Ignatz saw Marianne kneeling next to Bernadetta, who had collapsed on the field surrounded by even more bodies, shuddering and shaking. He ran closer, noticing Marianne was rubbing the Black Eagle’s back and shoulders as she shook and trembled, her Brave bow dropped at her knees.

“...I hate killing! I never want to kill ever again! Ever ever never never!” mumbled Bernadetta as she wept and hugged herself, overwhelmed in the aftermath of the battle.

Marianne looked up as she noticed him, and motioned him to be quiet. Sadly, Ignatz didn’t have time to be kind, and he hated himself for it.

“Marianne,” he began, his throat dry, and he wet his tongue and tried again to speak clearly. “You need to follow me. You need to do what you did before.”

“What before?” she asked quietly.

“To heal Dimitri,” he said earnestly.

He thought she would agree, if at least timidly. Instead she shrank back from him as if he had raised his hand threateningly. “Oh no. No, no. I can’t do that. The Prince’s cure is beyond me. I can’t be counted on to heal anything like that. I’d just make what’s inside him worse.”

“...maybe if I kill _everyone_ , I’ll finally be left alone. I wouldn’t have to kill anymore. That’s right,” sang Bernadetta under her breath. Marianne kept rubbing her back.

Ignatz backed away a step but knelt down to eye level with his fellow Golden Deer. He tried to ignore the cold feeling of the mud on his calves. “Listen, Marianne. You saw how he acted right? How he was moving?”

She looked away from him. Bernadetta began tittering to herself.

Ignatz wanted to clutch his head in frustration. How to convince her? He started again, “You know you’re good with animals. That’s what he is right now, Marianne.”

“Ignatz, please...stop. I can’t heal something like that,” she protested.

He blinked to realize she had forgotten this morning. “You did earlier! On the bridge, when we were going to the choir festival? Remember?”

She sucked her breath in between her teeth but looked down to consider it, her expression pensive. “That...that was just a fluke. It’ll probably never happen again. And Dimitri’s a man. Even if he’s a Prince, he’s still just a man. Not a…”

“Beast?” Ignatz interrupted her.

Her light brown eyes widened in fear at his words.

Ignatz looked uncomfortably away, hating himself. He looked up at the monastery walls, some of which were cracked and broken and the small figures running about on the walls. He said slowly, “Maybe if there was someone around...who could understand what that’s like...maybe that someone could heal Prince Dimitri. Make him better. Make him act like a Prince again. And not like a Beast. Someone that knows how he feels.”

Despite the cool mist and soaking mud, Ignatz sweated as he finished speaking. He waited nervously for the rejection, refusal, protests...

“Okay,” agreed Marianne in a firmer voice. “I’ll go with you. But I don’t want to leave Bernadetta like this.”

Ignatz nodded back at Marianne and stood with her, but he was unable to meet her eyes out of fear and shame. They both looked down at the rocking purple head of the timid Black Eagle.

“...and I’ll get a big pitcher plant. The biggest! And I’ll call her Audrey,” whispered Bernadetta to herself fiercely, still rubbing and squeezing her shoulders.

“Um...maybe she can come with us? Just in case?” wondered Ignatz.

“She won’t move,” said Marianne, shaking her head dolefully.

Ignatz was very perceptive. He saw things, and knew who he needed to talk to get things done. “Um...Bernadetta?” he asked.

“What?” she replied miserably. “Lemme alone. I’m tired of killing. I’m tired of war. I just want to cook and plant and sew. Maybe sleep in between. That’s all.”

“Uh, well I just wanted to tell you, that I saw Prince Dimitri hit Dedue in the battle today, when he…”

“WHAT?!” screamed Bernadetta, shooting upright. Ignatz thought he could see his glasses start to crack. The short girl reached down for the bow, and began rolling up her sleeves. “Oh, Prince or no Prince, I’m coming for you, Dimitri…” she growled. She glared back at Ignatz. “Where is that mad evil Prince who hurt my Dedoo-poo?! Bernie-bear’s on the hunt!”

Ignatz stood and looked around down the hill of the battlefield. Several figures were moving all around, and there was still fighting along the edge of town that he could see, but..

“Um. Guys? Is that...Petra?” he said, pointing.

A small purple haired figure was running into the woods, the lanky blue caped form of Dimitri following. And there was Felix and coming up behind them, straining to run in his heavy plate armor was…

“Dedue!! Wait for me, big guy!” Bernadetta yelled, running after them with her bow on her back.

Ignatz smiled in relief and held out his hand for Lady Marianne. “Well, let’s go. We’ll protect you…”

Marianne slapped his hand away.

Ignatz snatched it back like he was burned.

Marianne’s eyes were red as she glared at him. He almost staggered under her anger. “I’m going, Ignatz. But only because you know about my secret. And my shame. And soon, because of people like you, everyone else will know.” She ran after Bernadetta, not waiting for him.

Ignatz hung his head. He should have gotten someone else to help convince Marianne. He could only see things. Not do them. He wasn’t very useful on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a fun novella.
> 
> I think some of these scenes might be controversial with some readers, but in my defense, these are teenage murder-factory muppet babies.
> 
> And also, I was having fun with some of the more comedic scenes. So there's that.
> 
> Yes, Hubert is being set up for repeated, Rasputin-scale wreckage. The Hubert-bashings will continue until morale improves or the quarantine is lifted.
> 
> I am now on twitter! I am super Dumbo. I have no idea how this works. Message me @telsiree. I want to talk about all the weird ideas in my head.


	28. Reach Out Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black Knight: ‘Tis but a scratch.  
> King Arthur: A scratch? Your arm’s off.  
> Black Knight: No it isn’t.  
> King Arthur: What’s that, then?  
> Black Knight: [after a pause] I’ve had worse.
> 
> \--
> 
> Monty Python

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost finishing up this Steve Erikson multiple POV battle epic, guys. The narrative threads are fraying a bit and I think the timing is a bit off in some scenes and scenarios, but then my twisted brain thought up some perfect angst juice for future chapters.

Reach Out Your Hand

Flayn hurried through the Cathedral nave of Garreg Mach, trying to soothe as many parishioners with a brave smile as she could. The monastery staff, the monks and nuns too young or old for the battlefield, as well numerous pilgrims and visitors and visiting nobility milled about the massive interior, huddled against ancient walls or participating in the prayers near the altar, where people prayed for salvation from Saint Seiros and the Holy Mother. Everyone flinched at the sound of every magical detonation or the distant roar of wyverns. Since the massive Cathedral doors were shut and locked, the interior was dark save for the dim shafts of sunlight still coming from the rain lit sky outside the stained glass, and the stale indoor air carried the acrid stink of fear and urine.

She was checking in with a young squire assigned to give the people updates from the battle when she was aware someone had approached her.

“I hate this,” muttered a voice near her. “It never gets easier.” She turned and saw that young Cyril was before her, his fists clenching and unclenching and his chin quivering.

Flayn smiled and laid a comforting hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “It has never gotten easier for me, either. I know this must bring back terrible memories for you.”

“I don’t mind the memories,” grumbled Cyril, his red eyes shining in the darkness. “But it’s the helplessness, y’know? The not knowing. I want to help Shamir. And Lady Rhea. I’m getting to be a pretty good shot, y’know. But they said I was too young. Or maybe they just didn’t trust me with a weapon.”

Frowning, Flayn said, “None of that, please! You are a precious person here, Cyril. You have proven yourself to everyone at Garreg Mach, and if you hear any deprecation, please direct me to them! I will sic my brother on them!” she said indignantly, stamping a foot.

Cyril chuckled softly. “Heh, that’s pretty nice of you. Hey, Flayn? What wars have you been through?”

Her stomach tightened, but sadly for Flayn, Fodlan had enough conflict to make the well-rehearsed lie come easily to her lips. “The Dagdan-Empire conflict, for one. My brother and I were in western Adrestia during the invasion. We barely managed to flee to Faerghus before the borders were closed.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” the boy nodded. Then he looked askance at her. “But I mean...how do you feel about Shamir?”

“I think she is a very brave and loving young woman,” smiled Flayn gently. Then she cocked her head. “Do you not know the story of how she came to the monastery?”

“Nah. She’s never told me. I didn’t want to be nosy and have her stop training me.”

“She would do nothing of the sort if you asked! But I will admit she is a private person. Perhaps it is not for me to say, but maybe this story will help you understand her better,” said Flayn as she composed herself. “Lady Rhea and my brother led a relief mission five years ago for the refugees in western Adrestia, after the Dagdans and Brigiders lost the Battle of Port Hevring, at the kind invitation of the Imperial Regent, Lord Arundel.”

“Is that where Lady Rhea rescued her?” asked Cyril excitedly.

“Well...I would not say rescued. She attacked the relief column…”

Cyril staggered back a step. “She...she _attacked_ Lady Rhea?”

“But not in the way you would imagine! She rushed them from the road, attacking only with her knives, but did not kill anyone. Instead, she tried to force herself through the Knights towards Rhea. Eventually, she was overwhelmed and captured.”

“Wait, that doesn’t sound like Shamir at all. She didn’t use her bow…? Attack from cover? That’s what she always told me to do.”

“She did not,” said Flayn solemnly. “And the only thing she asked from the Knights was a clean death.”

Cyril had to think about it a bit, but he started to nod as well. “I get it now. I knew people in Almyra like that, when they had lost everything. She was trying to kill herself.”

Flayn nodded sadly. “She had given up all hope after losing her old comrades and company from the recent battle She was the only survivor, and in very poor condition. Rhea ordered the Knights to care for her and not mistreat her until she was sound of mind.”

The boy sighed and shuffled a bit as he stuck his hands into his pockets. “I know the feeling. She was feeling bad about herself. Her buddies died but she didn’t. I kinda remember feeling like that when my folks died.”

“Oh you poor dear! I am dreadfully sorry for bringing up terrible memories for you! This time on purpose!”

“Aw, I don’t mind. I’m better off than many other kids, so I can’t complain. So I guess Lady Rhea took Shamir under her wing too?”

“You are right,” said Flayn with a sad smile. “Rhea brought her back to Garreg Mach, and did not have her mistreated at all. Eventually, Shamir asked the Archbishop to visit her, in her...well, let us just say room...but when she emerged, she was the newest Knight of Seiros! And the first Dagdan Knight of Seiros, as well!”

Cyril looked up to the sunshafts starting to peek through the colorful stained glass. “That’s real swell of you to tell me, Flayn. I’ve got to work even harder, now--”

The young squire rushed up just then. “Flayn! Cyril! They just sent news! Lonato is dead! Victory for the Knights of Seiros!” he shouted loudly. The cathedral erupted into a raucous symphony of celebration and weeping as priests and others raised their voices in loud paens of thanks to the Goddess.

“They did it! I knew they could do it!” cheered Cyril, unconsciously sweeping Flayn into a hug. She found she did not mind a bit, before pulling back from him.

“Let us go help, Cyril. I am certain there are many sad and wounded souls who need our help at this moment.”

*

Petra scrambled up the first tall tree she could find. The rough bark was wet and slick and her handholds were dangerous, but she scaled the tree like her life depended on it. Because it did.

Instants later, a dozen feet below her, Prince Dimitri crashed _hard_ into the tree after her and nearly jiggled her from her precarious grip. “Coward!” screamed the mad, Spirit-touched Prince towards her feet. “Monster!! Come back and face your doom!”

Kicking with her feet, Petra pulled herself up the first branch she could find, looking at the scene beneath her. Dimitri was trying to claw his way up the tree, shredding strips of bark away from the trunk with every swipe, but either his fingers were too damaged for a proper grip or his crazed mind couldn’t process how to follow her. Petra grinned in relief and ascended even higher.

She slipped and nearly lost her footing as the tree _shook_ hard once more, another enraged roar tearing from the mad Prince’s throat. The Princess reprimanded herself for her lapse, climbing higher with more caution. Dimitri, even when Spirit-caught, was not an opponent to underestimate. She consciously tried to slow her breathing and heartbeat after their wild chase, and instead focused on maintaining three points of contact with her hands and feet as she clambered even higher among the boughs.

“Boar!” a distant voice called. Dimitri snarled and spun at the sound, crouching low with his back to the tree.

Petra hissed between her teeth in annoyance. _Felix is acting the part of the idiot! He thought I was in danger still, but I am safer than he at this moment._ She leaned around the trunk on a narrow branch, desperate to distract the mad one’s fury back towards her. “Prince Dimitri!” she screamed down at the small blonde head below.

The Prince’s head snapped up, his mad bloodshot gaze glaring murderously up at her.

Meeting his eyes, Petra leaned forward out of her cover, making her face a look of scorn for the wrathful Prince. Then she deliberately put her tongue between her teeth, and gave the insane Prince of Faerghus many rapsberries.

She had barely lunged back into her limited cover when the log flew up at her, cracking in half as it hit the trunk and snapping branches that sent torn leaves and splinters of wet wood everywhere. The tree groaned and swayed ominously as Petra grasped the central trunk for dear life. _When Felix said his mind loses all limits, he was not kindling!_ she laughed mentally in amazement to herself.

“Your Highness!” a deeper, out-of-breath voice called.

Growling to herself in irritation, Petra allowed this second call from Dedue. The Blue Lions were convinced they knew how to deal with their House Leader. And Petra ruefully acknowledged that she was the outsider in this matter. She had drawn the mad boy’s attention long enough. Peering behind a broken tree limb, Petra eyed the confrontation below as Dedue and Felix slowed their strides and spread out, attempting to corner their liege lord.

Felix was winded as much as Dedue, but she could see his gaze was steady and firm as he brought his sword up before his Prince, who was hissing and growling at them in heavy, panting heaves. Felix closed the distance between them anyway, his sword held firm in his grip, controlling his breathing slowly. “Who am I?” he shouted to Dimitri. “Do you recognize me?”

Petra thought that Felix was one of the bravest men in Fodlan.

“You’re not Glenn,” growled Dimitri in response in an unrecognizable voice. “Glenn’s dead. Glenn died for me. You just stole his face to torment me, imposter.”

Even Petra’s heart broke as she saw the distant masked pain on Felix’s face. He was not just one. He was the bravest. Of them all.

“Your Highness,” said Dedue slowly, his arms wide and his hands bare. He had not drawn a weapon, his axe and shield slung behind his back. “I am a friend. I am loyal to you. Do you remember me?”

“Shut up,” hissed the Prince, his blackened hands waving in front of him, as if he were trying to banish the image of Dedue away. “You’re dead too. I couldn’t save you. They all died. All of them. I should know, because I killed them!” Dimitri’s voice rose into a shriek as tears ran down his blood-smeared face. “I was weak! Everyone is dead because of me because I’m so _weak!_ ”

“You’re not weak, you’re just stupid,” said Felix, advancing in careful, measured strides. Petra saw that Dimitri was still sane enough to at least hesitate and back away in the face of that blood-kissed sword. “Listen to me, boar. You are Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. You are the future King of Faerghus…”

“I’m the King of Nothing!” Dimitri’s voice rose again higher into an insane scream. “Stop it, Glenn! Stop judging me and hating me! Stop telling me what to do! I can’t _do_ it!” 

Dedue was about to speak again, but Felix suddenly had had enough. “Never mind. You’re not stupid, you’re insane,” snapped the swordsman, raising his curved blade higher and bringing it on guard. “And you’re drooling like an idiot. Make a move then, you filthy animal. I can’t believe my brother died to save such a worthless piece of shit.”

With an animalistic roar, Dimitri sprang at his childhood friend, clawed hands raised like clubs. Felix was already rolling past the clumsy swings, whipping his sword in line with Dimitri’s ankles. If he was hoping to cripple him, it failed as the blade clanged off of Dimitri’s plated boots. Dimtri howled again and unexpectedly flailed a leg behind him, the lucky strike sending Felix to sprawl in the dirt, his sword spinning away from his grip.

“Felix!” The cry tore from her lips without her thinking.

“You Highness! Please stay calm!” yelled Dedue. He jumped forward to prevent Dimitri from closing in on Felix’s prone form on the ground.

The large man from Duscar grapped with Dimitri, hoping to pin the Prince beneath him with his armored bulk. Their struggles soon took them to the ground, with Dedue hampered by his desire to not damage his Prince. Dimitri, in his madness, had no compunctions. Soon the loyal Blue Lion was the one on his back, Dimitri’s hands seeking his throat.

“You-r High--ness…” choked Dedue, struggling to break Dimitri’s grip, his face turning darker.

Shaking her head in anger at such profound treachery, Petra silently crept down from her perch on the tree, trying to get into a safe height for an ambush. Felix was still limp on the ground, and Dedue would die without her intervention. All she had was her hands and feet, but that was all right. Brigid warriors did not need weapons to do damage.

She leapt.

And crashed full onto Dimitri’s back, her knees and elbows leading. The three Academy students tumbled into a heap of arms and legs, all dazed for a long moment.

Petra tried to recover from her rash strike, rolling to her hands and knees to regain her feet and wind. At least she heard friend Dedue was coughing, so he was still breathing. Then she hissed in pain as a gauntleted hand swiftly hauled up like a hunting kill by her braid, bringing her up to face the mad blue eyes of the Prince.

“So. I have caught you at last. I always suspected someone in the Empire was responsible,” growled Dimitri in her face, bloody froth starting to bubble from the corners of his mouth.

She snarled back at him and tried to punch his face. He effortlessly caught her fist. Rotated her wrist with his arm, crushing all the while. Petra’s pride could not choke back a scream as bones snapped.

“That was just the start of your suffering,” said the madman with a leer. “Now for the rest…”

A whistle and a thud behind them, and the Prince staggered forward, dropping her. Petra landed on her broken arm and nearly swooned from the pain. Dimitri whirled to regard his new attackers, an arrow protruding from his high on his back. Bernadetta and Ignatz advanced, both bows trained on the slightly weaving form of the Prince.

“More to kill…” growled Dimitri, tensing again, unafraid at the sight of two archers drawing aim at him less than twenty paces away, seemingly able to banish pain at will.

“Dimitri?”

Petra winced and looked up through tearing eyes to see someone new approaching through the wood. Marianne was advancing slowly and cautiously through the undergrowth, halting when she stood before the Prince.

Rough hands grabbed Petra ungently and dragged her away from Dimitri, who was now frozen like a frightened animal as he stared fixedly at the trembling form of Marianne. The Golden Deer’s breastplate and legs were splattered with blood, and sometime during the chaos of battle her hair had come undone, hanging with sweat and dirt around her shoulders. Petra glanced up behind her from the ground to see her savior, the grimacing form of Felix, clearly favoring one leg but wanting her as far from Dimitri as possible. Slowly to the side nearby, Dedue clambered to his knees, his breathing still a harsh wheeze.

“Marianne…” breathed Dimitri.

The Golden Deer healer slowly brought her teal hair up behind her back and turned her head slightly, baring her neck. She was carefully avoiding direct eye contact. “I’m here, Dimitri. I won’t hurt you,” she said as she advanced slowly, in miniscule steps, keeping her hands clasped together and shoulders hunched. “I know what’s happening to you is frightening. And hurts. So it’s time to rest now, and sleep. It’s over.”

Dimitri responded by twitching a few more times, his mouth opening and closing with audible snaps. Then he fell to his knees with a shiver, blood dripping from his numerous wounds. He gave a moaning sigh of relief as he hung his head, before whispering, “Is it over? Can I at last be with them? Will you finally let me die?”

Petra rose unsteadily with Felix’s help, her swollen arm hanging limp and throbbing. She hissed softly to hear such foul words from a future king. “Felix. What--?”

“I don’t know. But it’s working,” he returned with a quiet whisper of breath as he held her up. Soon they were both forced to lean on each other for support. 

Marianne hesitated at Dimitri’s words, then resumed her approach. “I know you’ve felt alone for a very long time, but we’re all here with you now. You can finally sleep...and...we’ll watch over you. You’re safe here. Nothing more will hurt you,” said the slight noblewoman, her voice cracking only slightly. She kept up her advance, her voice becoming a soothing drone. “I’m here to guide you home. You’re tired, but you can finally rest.”

Dimitri looked up at Marianne, his face streaked with tears and blood. “I don’t deserve such a gift,” he managed brokenly. “I should be punished for my sins. I belong in the Fires of Torment. The Goddess...she has turned her face away from me…”

Marianne slowly extended a single white softly glowing hand, palm down and fingers limp. “The Goddess is with me, Dimitri. I can help bring you to Her. She will grant you peace. Will you let me touch you and do that for you?”

Bernadetta and Ignatz cautiously lowered their bows. Marianne was now too close to risk an arrow shot, but all of them were in awe of her bravery as she reached out and slowly and gently laid her palm to the trembling Prince’s forehead. White light shone brightly through the wood, and Dimitri closed his eyes and smiled softly in welcome.

For a long moment, the light shone and nothing happened. Then slowly as a falling tree, Dimitri pitched forward, falling into Marianne’s arms as she caught him and carefully lowered him to the ground.

Ignatz was the first to speak in the sound of the still forest air. “Marianne--? What did you do?”

“He’s unconscious,” whispered Marianne as she cradled Dimitri’s head in her lap. “He’s sleeping for the moment. I don’t have the energy to do...anything more for him. He’s too hurt, both on the inside and out.” Her head turned to Ignatz, and she said more sharply, “We’re going to need help bringing him back. To the monastery.”

Dedue was still struggling to breath through a bruised and swollen throat, “I can shed my arms and armor to help carry him--”

“No! No, no, no, bad idea, very bad!” said Bernadetta firmly, running up to his side. She looked up with huge grey eyes to the large Blue Lion. “He nearly killed you! I won’t let that happen again! I can’t protect you if you’re dead!” From Petra’s side, Felix gave a snort of amusement.

“Bernadetta…” started Dedue, then he coughed loud and long, unable to speak.

“I’ll go, Dedue. I’ll be back with help for everyone. Just rest here for now,” said Ignatz in quiet reassurance, shouldering his bow and hurrying back through the woods to the monastery.

Dedue’s face locked into stubborn lines, despite his labored breathing. “I must tend to His Highness’ wounds…”

“Marianne can do that, dog,” said Felix loudly. Dedue swung to face her and Felix, but there was something more than scorn in his face. “No one doubts your loyalty. But you’re not what the boar needs right now. And...neither am I.” He said the last to himself, but Petra heard him. She thought Dedue did also, for he visibly relaxed.

“Dedue please...just...trust my friend Marianne,” pleaded Bernadetta anxiously, hanging off his arm. “She’s a great healer, the best. Pinky promise.”

Dedue made one final protest. “The arrow...it should be removed....”

“Oh...um...yeah...I guess...I’m sorry for shooting your Prince…?” said Bernadetta, before whispering beneath her breath, and looking darkly at Dimitri’s still form 

Marianne shook her head up at Dedue where she was unconsciously stroking the sleeping Dimitri’s hair. “He’s had so much blood loss, I’m afraid of removing it. I’m sorry.”

“Do not be sorry, Bernie. I have gratitude for you saving my life,” said Petra to her classmate, grimacing as the fatigue and pain from the battle was catching up with her. She assisted Felix to the direction of a large tree, and he did not protest as she eased him to the ground to lean back on the trunk, his breath catching at the pain in his leg. He also didn’t say anything when she settled down beside him, their shoulders touching, holding her wounded arm in her lap.

Bernadetta’s pleading finally got through to Dedue, or perhaps the armored warrior was finally feeling exhaustion himself. He sat heavily on the ground nearby Dimitri and Marianne, and Berandetta immediately began clucking over him, checking his throat and unbuckling his armor piece by piece, trying her best to make him more comfortable. For long minutes, they were silent as each of them tried to recover from the shock and bone-numbing weariness of a long battle.

Felix’s head was soon leaning against hers. “By the way,” he murmured down to her ear, tickling it with his breath. “Has anyone told you you’re crazy?”

She replied with a small secretive smile at the forest floor, one she knew Felix couldn’t see. “Hmm. Perhaps I have found good company for sharing.”

Felix snorted into her braid, but it sounded more like a chuckle. “You’re right. Maybe it is me too. I’m just as crazy.”

They were silent for a long moment. Petra felt she could almost sleep in these conditions, outside in the woods, if it were not the pain of battle keeping her senses aware, punctuated by the deep knifing throb of her shattered arm. She raised her head slightly to watch out for the others, and to stay alert for danger. Bernadetta stood protectively between Dedue and Dimitri, her bow half-nocked; Marianne was entirely intent on keeping the Prince in a calm sleep, rubbing his hair in repetitive, motherly motions, while humming a wordless lullaby.

“Felix.”

“What.” he replied instantly.

She spoke softly so only he could hear. “I take back my words of just before. Some would say...that it is crazy to try. To care. So I say as witness to your words and deeds...you are not crazy.”

Felix went completely quiet at her words. She could not even feel his breathing.

Petra slowly intertwined their arms, finding his sandpaper rough right hand with her left. She laid her open palm on top of his. Seeking permission, this time, for both of them. Now that they were no longer in the heat of battle.

Slowly, his fingers interlocked with hers. And squeezed tight.

*

It was one of the hardest things she had ever done in her life. But she finally had slid the sword impaling Catherine out of her, and tossed it aside. Her bloody hands clamped down now on the now open wounds, vainly trying to apply pressure and stop the trickles of pumping blood through Catherine’s chain mail.

“Heal her, damn you,” growled Shamir to Linhardt, ignoring the pale mage’s dramatic gagging at the sight of blood as they both hovered on their knees over the fallen Holy Knight.

“Yes...trying...don’t want you killing me...for failing…” snapped Linhardt back between gasping breaths as he laid shining hands on Catherine’s abdomen. Shamir could feel the wounds beneath her fingers starting to close, but Catherine’s face was as pale as her hair, now. She had probably lost too much blood for even the best healer to bring her back.

Somewhere behind them, there was a commotion, but neither paid any attention until a glowing sense of vitality and rightness swept over all three of them. Shamir suddenly felt much better, but she tried to ignore the feeling and simply focus until she saw the color suddenly return to Catherine’s face. She heard Linhardt intake a sharp breath, then the light in his hands abruptly winked out.

Shamir looked up at him. “Is that it? You healed her?”

“Well, I was starting to...but then I had help,” said Linhardt, abstractedly peering around the battlefield. “That was a Fortify. A legendary white anima spell, supposedly only castable by Saints. I’m suddenly feeling very healthy on my end. How about you?”

Shamir ignored the healer in favor of focusing on her partner, checking her slowly. She was breathing much stronger now, the pulse in her carotid slowly thumping like a battle-drum. Satisfied it was safe, she rolled Catherine’s face over from the mud and slapped her cheek.

Instantly Catherine’s blue eyes flew open, then focused on the archer’s face. She rubbed her cheekbone. “Ow. Fuck you, Shammy.”

“Fuck you more, you stupid bitch,” Shamir instantly replied in perfect candor, her face calm. “What were you thinking?” Shamir dragged Catherine up by her hand into a sitting position.

Catherine wiped mud off her face with a gauntlet with a sigh. “I got careless after saving Ashe, and then I paid too much attention watching Lonato get killed. I think the Gaspard men kidnapped his son. Guess they retreated once their Lord was down,” she said, eyeing the battlefield, glancing up at Linhardt as he stood.

Shamir noted it and said, “Don’t bother thanking him. He didn’t heal you. His own words.”

“I at least helped you get the sword out of her,” said Linhardt mildly. “You’re welcome, by the way.” He ambled off to the side, picking up Thunderbrand with a straining grunt and gingerly held out the blade hilt first to Catherine. He bowed slightly with a smile. “Your sword, milady.”

Catherine almost snatched it out of his hands. “Gimme that. You just wanted an excuse to fondle my Relic.”

The Black Eagle healer smiled again. “And it was a very enjoyable experience. Now, excuse me, I need to go find someone myself now. If I know him, he’s in trouble.” Linhardt wandered off.

Now that they were relatively alone and private, Catherine suddenly was unable to look at Shamir. Shamir just stared at Catherine’s face unblinkingly, waiting patiently. Soon words tumbled out of the Holy Knight, in a rush of excuses. “I know I was rash. I don’t deserve you risking yourself just to save my stupid life everytime. You shouldn’t have to baby me on the battlefield. I’m so sorry--”

“Shut up,” commanded Shamir, cupping Catherine’s chin to force her blushing face to look at her. Shamir gazed deeply into her partner’s eyes, forcing her defenses down while sitting on Catherine’s outstretched thigh in the middle of a battlefield.

Then she said seriously and softly with their faces close, “I fucking hate you.”

Catherine’s eyes widened.

Shamir then did something she normally never did. Not in view of witnesses.

She leaned forward and hugged Catherine.

Shamir muttered into Catherine’s hair. “We shouldn’t have split up on the ride back. You need me.” A simple statement of fact.

She felt Catherine swallow hard against her shoulder, a strong heavy arm gripping her back. “Yeah. That was a stupid idea. I need you,” she admitted roughly.

“Good to hear it,” said Shamir, rising off her partner in a smooth motion, tired of all this mushy stuff. They still had work to do. She hauled Catherine up to stand next to her own wiry strength.

Catherine held her black gloved hand tightly for another moment, finally meeting Shamir’s gaze of her own will. “Thanks, Shammy. I think...I fucking hate you too, partner.”

Smiling back at Catherine, Shamir said with a tight squeeze of her hand, “Don’t read too much into it. Just glad to have you back...partner.”

*

Manuela Casagranda woke up with an aching back. And not her usual aching back. No, this was far worse.

 _I should be dead_ , the Professor dimly realized, recalling the blast that had nearly killed all of them. The concussion had thrown her backwards on the parapet, despite Beatrix’s Ward, and she recalled her spine arching unnaturally as it hit the stone at the precise angle, feeling it crack and twist inside of her…

She opened her eyes to see Seteth, Hanneman, and Beatrix peering down at her.

“Manuela…?” Professor Hanneman, his monocle gone and his groomed hair wet and limp, simply looking like a tired old man without them.

“I’m here, Hanneman,” said Manuela through stiff lips. “I…” she experimented briefly with her own body. “I can feel tingles in all my extremities. Not sure if I can move them just yet. Ugh...I’m going to be a patient in my own infirmary, aren’t I?” she whispered grouchily.

“Amazing. It worked, Father Seteth,” Lady Beatrix wondered, looking back between a pale Seteth and Manuela.

“It appears so,” whispered the Abbot, appearing weak. He fell backwards into a sitting position, leaning against the remains of the stone wall. “She should be responsive to regular healing now.” Beatrix knelt beside Manuela and laid gentle shining palms on her torso, closing her eyes in concentration. She had been crying, noted Manuela, feeling oddly touched.

About to ask what they meant by that, Manuela was distracted by a deep growling grunt that vibrated beside them. Seteth’s wyvern nudged the exhausted man with his snout, wanting reassurance from its master, whose head was bowed to his knees. It calmed when the Abbot raised a hand to the beast’s snout.

Feeling secure enough to raise her head, Manuela tried to look around. The rain was mere drops now, although a grey haze lingered overhead. Wyvern riders, their mounts, and monks and nuns moved limply along the wall as healers moved among man and beast alike, healing wounds or saying brief prayers for the dead. She dimly realized she heard no more sounds of combat. “We won--?” she weakly asked, slowly feeling stronger by the moment as Beatrix channeled energy into her.

“Yes...though not without loss,” mentioned Hanneman slowly. “Lonato is dead, but we think...we are not sure...that Jeralt and Princess Edelgard may have fallen in the battle against him.”

“Oh Goddess, please no,” pleaded Manuela in horror, feeling pain like a knife on her heart. Jeralt she could mourn as a colleague, but the Princess was her student. Her precious responsibility. She would never forgive herself if her prize noble student were dead, the future Emperor of Adrestia and the entire House of Hresvelg, dead because of her. “Not them. Please say someone is out there healing them. Please!” she said louder, panicking, trying to struggle upright.

Beatrix opened her own red rimmed eyes, moving to push Manuela back down. “Professor, please stop--damn it. Hanneman, can you help hold her…? Gently.” The Blue Lion Professor moved to assist.

Then they all felt it.

Manuela was struggling weakly against Beatrix and Hanneman when they all went slack, unable to fight the energy and pure essence of life that swept over their bodies. It was almost a rapturous experience, and Manuela suddenly felt full of strength and lighter than air, all injuries healed and all stamina returned. Looking around, she could see each of her friends was feeling the same thing, their eyes glazed and jaws hanging open. Then the feeling of joy and precious, loving energy retreated.

The Black Eagle Professor sat up in amazement, already missing the perfect joy that special healing had brought her. She noticed Seteth swiftly standing, scanning the field, with his mount swiveling its massive head and neck to look beside its master. “What was that--?” she asked blankly, now able to stand with Hanneman’s assistance.

“A Fortify--? I have never felt one, but I have read of them. That feeling...was almost an exact description,” started Professor Hanneman in awe.

“Yes, but it should not be possible…” Seteth told them. “Both Rhea and Flayn…” he trailed off, then he froze as he caught sight of something on the field, and moved instantly to leap on the back of his mount. The wyvern shivered in anticipation of flight.

“Seteth? What did you see?” shouted Lady Beatrix at him.

He turned his head down to them and said a name.

“Byleth.”

*

Up at the top of the monastery, Rhea’s verdant green eyes snapped open from her spell.

_Mother._

_You’re here._

_At last._

Sothis’ firstborn daughter smiled.

*

Byleth channeled her energy as deeply as she could, hoping and wishing and praying at the same time with her eyes tightly closed, ignoring the mud, the battlefield, the world. She didn’t know if she was doing it right. All she knew was that she had done it, just minutes before. So she would do it again. There was no other choice.

 _That’s it,_ Sothis cooed in her mind, finally returned to her after an absence of weeks. _You are doing so well. You’re finally learning._ Byleth ignored the Goddess inside her, trying to remember and follow Dorothea’s instructions on healing to the letter.

She imagined her Father, a grim but kind man who gruffly raised her all of her life, always somehow fighting impossible odds and always returning unscathed with victory. The man who had taught her battle and war and swordplay, closed-mouthed and grumpy but always by her side on the road. A flawed man, but always kind. Doing all for her.

He was invincible. He was the Blade-Breaker.

Byleth realized she couldn’t picture a world without him. The thought of her father’s mortality was never before considered. He never changed, as timeless as the mountains and forests and fields of Fodlan itself.

_Father...you mean so much to me. Don’t leave me. I don’t think I could bear it. I need you by my side. Always._

_There’s...so much we haven’t talked about. So much you never explained, but I never bothered asking. I want to talk about things now, Dad. I need you to help me understand. You still need to teach me so much. Maybe I didn’t want to learn before, but I do now._

She imagined Edelgard, her secretive friend to whom she had sworn an oath. The girl she had given her life for, back in some forgotten timeline in Remire Village. Who carried deep pain and dark secrets, hidden behind the grim determination and resolve of an Emperor. The slight girl in red and black who had taught her how to feel, making her feel things and ideas and thoughts she had no words for.

Byleth had been avoiding her, somehow, she realized. Along with the longing feelings had come a hesitant fear. Fear of doing things wrong, of somehow breaking their casual trust and closeness without knowing why, their tentative bond sundered by her awkwardness, her clumsiness. Now she saw her own confusion at her strange thoughts and feelings had been holding her back.

 _I care about you,_ she thought into a mental image of Edelgard’s proud lilac eyes. _I care about you the same way I do my family. You’re not just my friend._

_You’re something...more._

_It scared me. I...lost focus and hid myself in duty from talking with you like a coward. There was so much to do, yet you were always there, waiting for me to open up._

_I’m sorry, Edelgard. I failed you. I didn’t protect you from this. Forgive me,_ pleaded Byleth to the image, channeling what will and determination she possessed and...something else, something so pure and precious she didn’t have a name for it. She poured that into the image, as well, focusing it all tightly to her hands, to the burned and scarred bodies beneath her blistered fingers.

 _Enough,_ eventually Sothis hummed to her through her brain. _Even you have limits. Even beings such as ourselves. I can only extend you so much, lest it destroy you. What we can Do, we have Done._

Byleth ignored the Goddess, forcing more power through the mental channel, feeling her own body start to burn and sag, her head bowing to her chest.

 _Byleth…_ said the Goddess, appearing in the darkness on her throne before her, small and green and sympathetic. The vivid green will o’ wisps swirled in agitation around the child. She didn’t think the Goddess had ever called her by her name before. If so, she couldn’t remember it.

 _Byleth, they’re speaking to you. Open your eyes. You will do us no good if you fade away yourself._ Then suddenly the wisps were heading straight for her.

Knight Byleth gasped and shuddered as she returned to reality, opening her eyes with a wave of dizziness, then shutting them again. She found she had no strength left, and began to fall face first into the mud.

Strong hands in twisted armor caught her, holding her up. Distant voices spoke, then became stronger. Edelgard’s voice was in her ear. “--you hear me? Byleth!?”

Her father’s hand was on her shoulder, shaking her with a firm but gentle grip. “Hey kid,” he rumbled loudly. “Wake up. That’s an order, soldier.”

She blinked her blue eyes to see both Edelgard and Jeralt looking down at her, their brows creased in worry, their armor blackened and shredded but no longer smoking hot. Their skin was smooth and unblemished. She had even restored their hair, Edelgard’s pale white locks and her father’s rough bearded jaw. After all that effort and fear and concern, the sight was...funny. Hilarious. She chuckled weakly up at their faces, foolishly worried about her, saying only, “Thank Sothis. You’re safe. Both of you.”

“How? How did you do this?” said Edelgard, her eyes searching her face. Byleth could not remember seeing Edelgard looking so confused, so lost.

Byleth smiled wanly up at her, barely able to lift her head. “I prayed. To the Goddess. To heal you both.”

Edelgard was obviously bewildered. “And the Goddess granted...your prayer?”

“We’ll talk about it later, cadet,” said Jeralt roughly, lifting up Byleth from Edelgard’s grip into his arms. Despite his armor and clothing smelling like burnt things, she gratefully hugged his chest back, too exhausted and relieved to care about anything else. “She needs to rest now. We all do. Let’s get back to the monastery.”

Edelgard made a spare sound of acknowledgement as the Professor walked away, then said more harshly in a demand, “Hubert. What has passed?” Byleth was able to peek past her father’s shoulder to see the tall pale mage speaking to the Princess in a low voice, both of them glancing at the nearby pile of meat and metal that used to be Lord Lonato, with a scowling and tense Ferdinand standing some distance away from them by his horse.

That reminded her. “Dad,” she muttered.

“Shhh, kid. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Not that. Nothing about you-know-who. Just...don’t let them get expelled.”

“Who? You mean the noble brats? You must’ve seen them in town,” sighed Jeralt as he carried his daughter back up the hill to the monastery, stepping around bodies on the ground, his boots squelching in the thick mud.

Byleth nodded in her father’s embrace, her voice becoming slower, sluggish. “They saved me in the town. Against a monster. I wouldn’t have been able to help you or Edelgard without them. And...that’s where I learned I had this power. I had to heal Ingrid. Before she died too.”

Jeralt said gently, “Tell me about it later, kid. You’re a Knight of Seiros. Everyone will believe you.” Her father’s voice was a soothing rumble against her ear, but she wanted to get out one last plea before she fell asleep.

“They’ll believe you even more.”

Her father said nothing to that, just grunting as he hefted her in slow steps back to the monastery.

She was drifting into unconsciousness at this point, but she thought she heard a heavy, thumping beat of wide wings, and there was a potent rush of musky wyvernflesh nearby. She briefly heard her father and Lord Seteth speaking, and then her exhaustion claimed her.

*

Claude blinked open his eyes to see a bearded, weatherbeaten, very male face inches from his own.

“Okay, you are so not one of the virgins I was expecting to see in the afterlife,” Claude announced to that visage.

The face scowled down at him. “What the hell does that even--?”

The man was suddenly pushed bodily aside from Claude by a pinked nailed hand. “Claude!” sniffed Hilda, diving down on him and lifting him up to squeeze him in a hug.

Claude’s green eyes bulged and he desperately pounded on her muscular back with his fists to get her attention. “Hilda...recently...healed...ribs…” he gasped out.

“Oh right…” she said, and that lessened the pressure from her arms to tight and firm, but breathable levels. But she didn’t let go of him. Claude glanced up hopefully from her embrace, seeing Leonie’s scowl and Lorenz’s patented ‘noble look of disdain’ on his face, but he had a slight smile to his lips as well. Raphael was sniffing and trying to wipe his eyes through his helmet opening, but he eventually took it off, smiling broadly down at him.

He made sure to whisper a quiet, private “Thank you” to Hilda’s ear, which made her just rock him in the cradle of her interlocked, muscular arms. Claude thought he could put up with that for the rest of his life. He looked up and addressed the rest of his...friends, he supposed he could call them now.

He really had been going about this all wrong, hadn’t he?

Claude decided he could kick himself about it later, back in his room. “Thank you for saving me,” he said for lack of more eloquent options, inclining his head to each of his classmates in turn. “Is everyone else safe? Lysithea, Ignatz, Marianne?” he asked.

“Lys and Big Ig are still on the wall,” Raphael informed him with a jerk of his thumb. “I think lil’ Marianne is around helping heal people, but we dunno where.” 

That confused Claude. “Wait...who healed me then?”

“Yeah, that would be me,” replied the big brawler from earlier, standing next to Raphael and looming over him like an even bigger, craggier mountain. “The King of Grappling himself. Not to mention knowing quite a bit of healing, too. You can thank me in several thousand gold or an official pardon from Duke Riegan himself, kiddo.” Claude raised his eyebrows in surprise, reassessing the brute.

Hilda finally raised her head up from where she had burrowed her face into his neck with a sniffle. “Oh, just ignore that big idiot, Claude. His name is Balthus, and he’s an old friend to me and my big brother. Lorenz and I ran into him in town.” She glanced at Balthus. “He’s a braggart and a drunk and he has unclean habits.”

“Lil’ Hil! I _just_ saved your House Leader, and already you’re spreading rumours about me? Low blow,” muttered Balthus, rubbing a hand through his wet hair.

Claude accepted an assist from Hilda and Leonie, getting up on wobbly legs, turning his head to the battlefield. He winced at the large piles of twisted bodies around them, some of them still smoking from Lorenz’s magic. “So since we’re not all dead, I’m assuming we won--?”

“The battle appears to be over for the moment,” said Lorenz with a dainty sniff into his rose. Somehow despite being wet from the rain Lorenz hardly had a speck of mud on him. “Lonato’s forces were routed, and by all appearances the Lord himself is dead, by the hand of Prince Dimitri no less.”

“No thanks to you running off before the fighting,” growled Leonie with her filthy and bloody face inches from his own. “Hilda has an excuse, but you don’t. We’re going to settle this later, Lorenz.”

Lorenz raised a sculpted purple eyebrow down at her. “Is that a threat, my dear Lioness?”

Leonie gave him a sinister smile in return. “Friends don’t make threats. They make promises. Just wait until I have a nice chat with Captain Jeralt. I saw everything with Knight Shamir.” Lorenz’ pallid skin turned an even whiter shade of pale.

Ignoring their byplay, Claude’s mind focused on the last important thing Lorenz had said. _Dimitri._ He vaguely remembered the scream at the end. “I think I heard Dimitri scream before I conked out. What happened to him?” he asked the group.

“We couldn’t see a whole lot,” Leonie told him, pointing over the muck and body strewn field past Balthus. “Lonato was blasting everyone with that weird magic lance, and then it stopped after we heard Dimitri’s shout. But then the Prince was running everywhere through Lonato’s army as it was trying to withdraw. He was…” Leonie swallowed at the memory, then continued, “killing Lonato’s soldiers...with just his bare hands.”

Hlida shuddered next to him. “It was pretty scary, Claude. Dimitri was acting crazy and screaming all this nonsense stuff. We thought we saw Dedue and Felix trying to get after him, but we couldn’t be sure because we were still fighting ourselves. He killed people in the most horrible ways. It was like he was trying to kill every single one of them by himself.”

“I thought it was pretty awesome myself,” grinned Balthus. “I didn’t know anybody could throw severed heads and guts that far.” Lorenz and Hilda both turned green at the comment.

“By the Gods…” started Claude, deep in thought at the news but then another person came near them in a stumbling rush, his blonde hair matted in sweat.

“Hey look, it’s Ignatz! Hey, bud, what’s going on?” said Raphael, pleased to see his oldest friend.

Ignatz leaned with his hands on his knees, but eventually caught his breath. “Guys...Marianne and Prince Dimitri...and the rest of them...we need your help. Everyone’s hurt bad, even Dimitri...and Marianne’s exhausted.”

Claude’s overactive thoughts instantly buzzed into his latest scheme. Schemes could be good and kind things, right? Completely unselfish. “Don’t leave anything out, Iggy,” he said to the shy archer, leaning forward eagerly.

*

Constance waved at her face with her fan, trying to cool her face in the humid, crowded confines of their hiding spot. She leaned forward toward one of the windows, trying to get a peek at the sky. Yuri hissed from where they knelt beside her in frustration. “Constance. Just lean out and wave at them like a street girl asking for customers, why don’t you?”

She leaned away from the window in shock at such rudeness. “I am merely trying to make certain the weather is still cloudy. You know that I absolutely cannot endure sunlight for my...health,” she whispered back harshly.

“Are they here yet?” eagerly asked Little Caspar. A pair of borrowed cestuses from Balthus’ collection were clenched tightly in his fists. The perky young Blue Lion girl, Annnette, loudly tried to shush him. The rest of the gang members shook their heads and rolled their eyes. Yuri covered their purple eyes with one delicate white glove and sighed in despair, before leaning up from cover to take one last look at the street up ahead. “Almost,” they muttered.

Constance put her fan away to her dress belt in anticipation when she sensed Yuri tense up in a flash. “Oh no,” they whispered, before smoothly getting up to turn to Constance in desperation. “Constance, change of plans. No Bolting at the head of the column. Try to cast it at their rear. Just don’t kill the Gaspard men in the lead.”

“I really would like to know a reason why, dear Yuri…”

Yuri’s eyes became pained. “They’ve got...a friend of mine. From my past. Captured. He must have joined the Academy.”

“What?! It must be someone we know! Please please tell us,” whispered Annette, clutching a small axe to her chest. “We can help rescue him!”

Yuri stared at her for a moment, assessing her sincerity before sighing softly and looking down.

“It’s Ashe. Lonato’s son.”

*

Hapi leaned against the wall of the inn, bored out of her gourd. Her red eyes swept disinterestedly over the groups of wounded Knights of Seiros huddled together on the floor, and at the dim-witted nobleman and his crazy Seirosian girlfriend, trying to help them and heal them as best they could. She was perversely irritated at their presence. Doris and her blonde lady friend at least looked like an interesting couple. Hopefully they were taking the time to play slap and tickle in their room upstairs. But this redheaded manwhore and his own personal nun fantasy? It was supremely obvious they were just using each other as their own idiosyncratic redemption arc. Finally it got so bad she had to look away from their shy smiles and secret glances to each other, biting her lip and breathing through her nose to keep it in control. Why did Yuri always give her the most boring jobs with the stupidest people? That just made her _more_ likely to sigh.

A booming thunderclap nearby--no more than a few streets--shattered her out of her idle thoughts.

 _Finally. Some action._ Hapi was tired of boredom.

Pushing herself from the wall, she called out to the innkeeper, “Silas! I’m going to check it out! Be right back!” Not waiting for an answer, Hapi strode from the broken doors of the inn, rolling up the sleeves on her grey jacket.

The disgusting wurm corpse in all of its meaty, anatomical glory was still out there on the street, of course. The stink was horrible, but Hapi had smelled worse. The knackers outside were arguing about the viability of using the remains for human consumption, taking experimental whacks at the fleshy remains with their machetes and contending who would taste it first. The remains of the blonde lady’s pegasus were nowhere in sight. Except for maybe a hoof or two, and some white and red feathers.

Unfazed, Hapi turned down the street, hoping to get behind the inn to where the fighting must soon be starting. She had barely gone fifty steps before a large group of angry Knights confronted her from a side street.

“You! You’re an Abyssian! Where’s your boss? The one called Yuri? He said to meet Lonato’s forces here!” shouted the female Knight in the lead with a scowl.

“Only my boss can order me to tell them where they are,” said Hapi, deadpan. “Have any of you rustbrains seen a lightning bolt? The one that flashed about ten seconds ago? Unless you’ve already forgotten, like goldfish.”

“Damn it...that was on the other side of town! He tricked me!” said the woman, becoming red-faced.

“Or maybe they’re just kind and want to spare you and your men any more casualties? Anyway, laters haters. Have a nice and short life.” Hapi turned and quickly ran through the alleyways, taking the quickest route she knew to the area where Yuri and the rest had to be.

The Knights yelled at her and tried to follow, but they didn’t know about the secret passages through the town. Or the walls with hidden ladders for climbing to the rooftops. Or the empty, boarded up buildings, that could be opened once you turned the loose handles in the right sequence. Hapi made her way quickly across Garreg Mach Town, starting to hear clashes of metal and screams, in the midst of Coco’s faint musical laughter intermixed with detonations.

_Damn you, Coco, you better leave me some._

One last disguised laundry wire in an alley close to the fighting was actually a thin rope, giving one access to the roofs above. Wrapping the rough laundry strips around her hands, she jumped from a nearby waste bin and started climbing, using the brick wall and windows with her feet, ascending quickly. Within a minute she was on the tile rooftop, moving carefully to wedge herself between the gable of the roof. From there she had a clear view of the battle below her.

They should have called her and B here for this. There were obviously more Gaspard militia still surviving than Yuri-bird expected. Already some of the members of the gang were down, and although Coco’s magic was making up for a lot of it, she could see Yuri and the others being forced backwards through the street. Maybe Coco’s Bolting spell had been ill-aimed? For their part, Yuri-bird was fighting towards a burly Knight who was obviously the leader, with a squad of other strong Gaspard men-at-arms holding a struggling, silver haired boy in Academy student garb in their midst.

Managing her emotions tightly and chewing her lip, Hapi took careful aim below. Dark magic, an unwanted legacy of her imprisonment and “training,” took shape into her hands, and she willed it towards where it would hit nothing but Gaspard idiots. She willed the black glob of negative energy gently forward, lobbing it down below. They never saw it coming. Men screamed as black splotches consumed their faces, their hands, their shoulders, withering away whatever lay beneath into nothingness.

Between casts on the hapless men below her, Hapi noticed a teal haired boy and a redhead girl she didn’t recognize helping Yuri in finally managing to use their special trump card to kill the Gaspard leader. As they distracted the black haired Knight with both fists and axe, Yuri stepped back, flexed their wrist, and suddenly appeared behind the Knight to skewer him on their white rapier. Shaking the corpse off their sword, Yuri turned with their new friends to try and free the other Academy student from the remaining fanatics. Hapi shook her head at her boss’ idealism. Yuri-bird was an odd one. These random acts of compassion were going to get them killed one day, despite all of their ruthlessness.

A twin blast of fire and vacuum magic, aimed at precisely the same spot, turned a score of their foes to gently floating ash, allowing Yuri and the gang to surge forward at the remainder. Hapi allowed herself a small smile, one that grew larger when she saw Coco’s enthusiastic wave up to her from below. They had come up with that one themselves in magic practice. Even Big B had been impressed.

A wailing roar from up the street to her left caught her attention. It was another company of Gaspard idiots, all bloody and beaten but still coming straight down the street towards the gang. Hapi frowned in irritation, then pinched herself to regain control of her emotions. She smoothed her face and focused on casting more, even though she was running out of energy.

Yuri and the others had managed to save the silver-haired boy on the bloody street below. Cute. Yuri and the kid even hugged each other. Man. Must have been a special case. But there were more enemies coming. “Yuri-bird!” Hapi shouted down to the scene below, trying to get her boss’ attention. Yuri looked up and nodded, then turned over the silver haired freckled kid to the other two Academy nobles. Constance and the rest of the gang came up to guard them from these last Gaspard foes.

Then Hapi saw that the men weren’t running at the gang to attack. Most of them didn’t even have weapons. They were running _away_ from something.

More specifically, someone.

Fortunately Yuri saw it too. They shouted orders, and although surprised and wounded, the gang still obeyed their boss, moving to the sides of the street to give an avenue of passage for the fleeing Gaspard soldiers. The desperate men willingly took it, some sobbing in gratitude or blessing them in the Goddess’ name. Some of them even called out to their former foes, begging them to flee with them.

Hapi turned to look at the solitary figure walking down the street.

A long haired man, who might have once had hair called blonde, but now it was blood drenched. His entire outfit, including his long and very sharp looking sword were red and gory as well. Something was off with his face too; like he was wearing a mask over his eyes and nose.

The Academy students all started cheering in relief at the sight of the man. “Professor Jeritza!” “Wow! Super amazing!” “Oh, thank the Goddess, Professor!” The so-called Professor Jeritza didn’t respond, still advancing with his bloody sword up by his side in slow, measured strides.

Hapi was definitely feeling waves of bad juju coming off of this guy. It was like he was...inhuman. “Yuri-bird!” she called out again. “Maybe they were running away for good reason!”

Yuri hesitated, since the Academy students obviously knew the man and were already rushing forward to greet him. But Constance had an entirely different reaction after observing Jeritza for a moment.

“Emile? Is that you, dear Emile von Bartels?” she sang out daintily.

Jertiza’s face instantly turned to her, as did his strides. Walking past the excitedly chattering students, he approached Constance slowly, his sword in his right hand finally lowering to the ground. Yuri relaxed at that motion, lowering their sword too, although most of the gang was still wary.

Constance was delighted by his recognition. “Emile! It is you, my darling one!” she said coquettishly. Hapi had never seen Coco act like such a girl around anyone. The former Imperial noblewoman whipped out her fan and began fluttering her face with it.

Coco held her left hand and shyly averted her eyes, as she simpered, “Oh my dear sweet Emile, my lovely blushing red rose, it has been far too long--”

It happened in slow motion, between heartbeats.

The sword flashed, too fast to follow.

Constance turned her face back in confusion, dropping her fan.

Her elegant left forearm, along with their golden-blue fingernails, fell to the dirty street with a dull thud.

Yells and screams of horror from the Academy brats.

A resounding, outraged, “NO!” from Yuri, and the rest of the gang.

Worst of all was Constance, as she fell to the ground on her knees in shock, staring at her own severed arm, clutching the red ruin of her stump of a left arm. Then she curled up and screamed, a horrified wail of outrage and pain and betrayal so strong that it almost rent the world. A scream of hopes and dreams, forever crushed. Of talent and power, forever denied. For what magician could conjure their arts with only one hand?

The Academy students backed away in confused revulsion and terror from their Professor. The man called Jeritza stood tall over Constance with his sword, his eyes closed and his arms wide open as if embracing the pain of her screams. Yuri and the rest of the surviving gang rushed forward to attack the madman. Constance rolled into a tight ball, still weeping and screaming.

Hapi went berserk.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Coco...I mean poor Jeritza.
> 
> Next chapter: The Hapi vs. DK Celebrity Deathmatch no one demanded, as well as lots of Edelgard/Claude, Byleth/Rhea/Sothis, the resolution of the expelled noble brat plot, and general battle aftermath, as well as the fate of the expeditionary force. I know I need to pick up the pace a bit but writing these vignettes is so fun, can't stop/won't stop.
> 
> Also more Shamir/Catherine, love that crazy emotionally constipated couple.


	29. Reunions at Dusk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The piers are pummeled by the waves;  
> In a lonely field the rain  
> Lashes an abandoned train;  
> Outlaws fill the mountain caves.
> 
> \--
> 
> Auden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sothis bless Hapi.

Reunions at Dusk

  
  
  


Hapi felt her emotions surge, breaking past any hope of control. She welcomed it, welcomed the power that it brought as she screamed in rage at the masked madman down on the street below.

But she had to get down to the street, first, to help her gang, who were now fighting and being slaughtered by the specter of death drenched in red, wielding a mighty sword in two handed blows. She was far too high up to risk a jump, and the roof tiles stretched over the street in small awnings, so climbing down was impossible.

Poor Coco had shown her, months before. It was easy to warp something else from one place to another; it was much harder, much more difficult to warp yourself there. Coco had explained the theory with such ostentatious magical mumbo-jumbo that Hapi just smiled indulgently at her while thinking of where to get some fresh pastries up in town above…

Coco was screaming on the ground far below, clutching her bleeding stump tightly, trying to stem the bleeding with her dress. Coco might never ever cast magic again, much less teach it.

Hapi moved her hands, and channelled her anger into a tight focus, invocating the powers for Warp, but centered on herself, and _she_ was the one going down to the street, and not anything else was going to follow--

_Blip._

\--ow.

_Blip._

Suspended in air, falling! She was suddenly tumbling down with pieces of the roof with her, ten feet above where she had wanted to be. Hapi and large chunks of roof tiles and timbers fell to street cobbles with a crash between the still-stupefied Academy brats and the battle up ahead. Groaning, then snarling, Hapi struggled to get up from the broken tiles and wood and rise to her feet.

Strong hands lifted her from the wreckage. Hapi cursed as she tested her aching right ankle. It was twisted, and her elbows and back felt sore as hell, but she didn’t need those to do some damage. She angrily shook off the hands holding her, turning and glaring at the three Academy students who shrank away from her.

She didn’t want to know their names. Past courtesy, Hapi said only to them, “Run away, if you want to live. Run back to Garreg Mach.”

All three nobles looked nothing more than lost, scared children, despite their weapons, with all of them having tears in their eyes. The girl, the petite redhead, started, “I--I’m so sorry...we had no idea…”

Worthless excuses. “Then run back and tell everyone. Tell them the truth. That fucking bastard is killing all of my friends. So I’m going to kill him, and probably myself in the process.” They blinked uncomprehendingly at her, so Hapi flexed her arms and let some dark anima nestle into her hands, glowing with black fire, heavy with threat. “Go!” she shouted. They backed off even farther.

The silver haired boy with tears streaming down his freckles said, “Guys...maybe she’s right…”

Hapi turned her back on them and their debate, hurrying as fast and as close to that asshole Jeritza swordsman as she could, hopping on her good leg. She didn’t care anymore. She was that angry. Hapi only had the presence of mind left for two thoughts. _Save the gang. Save the Ashen Wolves, the Mockingbird’s Band, the Garreg Mach Thieves’ Guild, the Abyssians, whatever we liked to call ourselves._

_Save Coco. Even though she might not want to be saved right now._

And then the other, second thought: _I’m going to fucking kill him. Even if it kills me._

The blood soaked apparition of Jeritza and the lithe form of Yuri were locked into a duel as she approached, with Coco still weeping in a blood soaked ball nearby, her severed arm turning clammy and gray beside her. Seeing her best friend like this sent a fresh surge of unholy rage through Hapi, and she felt her blood hum and thrum with the power of her training, her Crest. She began summoning her power, invocating and empowering her dark magic with runes, hoping for an opening where she could help Yuri-bird. They were the only one in their gang who had a chance against this guy in melee. Even Big B would have probably been cut down in a single blow. No chance of grappling against a foe like this.

The man--no, _demon_ \--called Jeritza was powerful and strong, and very fast for his size. But Yuri was faster, and had the aid of a Relic only increased their speed and could teleport them in short hops. It was confusing and baffling the madman, but Hapi knew if he got in a single anticipated strike against Yuri-bird, it would all be over. Yuri was now fencing with the deadly swordsman, leading him further and further away from Hapi--she frowned in confusion--

\--then with a _pop_ Yuri was beside her, their face locked in a grim scowl. “Now!” they barked.

Hapi grinned at Jeritza as the man whirled to face them, too far away to catch them. She incanted the final phrase of her most powerful Dark Magic spell, then summoned it beneath her opponent’s feet.

The street and cobbles beneath Jeritza erupted into a savage, lurid red light, with the despairing screams of the dead brought to unlife wailing out for all to hear. Struggling and buffeted in the arcane storm, Jeritza was lifted up in the air, helpless in the blood-red column of screaming souls, the spirits of those he killed in the past reaching out with ethereal hands to punish him from beyond the grave. Faster and faster they swirled around him, his material sword passing through them like air as he hissed in defiance. They then shrank, compressed and _detonated_ on their target in the middle, with massive white skeletal claws reaching from the ground to claim their prize. Hapi smiled at the sight.

_See you in Hell, bastard._

Suddenly the shrieking, ghostly moans stopped, and the explosion and reverberations buffeted everyone on the street, with Yuri-bird helping steady her weak footing against the backlash of energy. For a long moment nothing moved aside from the swirling fog and small taps of falling pieces of stones and ashes. The surviving members of the gang began cheering raggedly in celebration, then stopped as the dust settled.

Jeritza rose from his knees amongst the glowing arcane wreckage of the street, a gem on his neck shining brightly, encasing his body in an orange arcane shield. He looked battered and torn, but more than strong enough to finish off any single one of them. The only indication of distress he showed was rolling his shoulders and neck, and slight shake of his bloody head.

“Is that all?” he inquired politely in a deep, silky voice. He began readying his sword and advanced once more on Yuri and Hapi.

Yuri-bird muttered next to her, “Shit. That’s a Relic, too. A defensive one.”

Hapi scowled. So. A noble, Crest-bearing, ancient sword wielding, Relic wearing, exceptionally fast and strong, master swordsman serial killer. Was there a single advantage this guy did _not_ have? _Oh well, time for the original plan._ She looked up sadly at the one who took her in, years ago, drinking in their pretty face and exquisite make-up one last time. “Yuri-bird,” she said with a tiny smile. “Go save Coco’s life. And thanks for all the fun times.”

They turned their beautiful face towards her in confusion. “What--?”

Ignoring them, turning back to glare at Jeritza, Hapi began breathing very rapidly through her mouth. “Ooooo--ahhhhh, ooooo--ahhhhh, ooooo--ahhhhh--”

Yuri’s purple eyes widened, and they instantly rushed to Coco’s side with a smooth sheathing of their sword. “Mockingbirds! Fly away! FLY!” they yelled to the rest of the gang, gathering Constance’s bloody body into their arms. Pausing to face her, Yuri-bird said shortly, simply, “Hapi. I’ll remember. She’ll remember.” Then Yuri and Constance vanished, in another short teleporting hop away, while the rest of the Abyssians melted away into the alleys or into buildings, leaving the bodies of their fellows behind. They didn’t need to be told twice.

Jeritza only smiled at Hapi as he walked steadily to her, sword pulled back and ready to kill.

Hapi kept breathing with her fists clenched, as deeply in and as deeply out as she could, as fast as she could, glaring at the evil killer with her red eyes the entire time. She had never sighed this much, this fast, ever before. Especially while this angry. _These are VERY discontented sighs, you fucker. I hope you’re ready._ For the rest of the gang that had been mercilessly killed, their bodies strewn in the street all around them. For Coco’s severed arm and betraying her innocent, foolish trust, and essentially ruining her entire life. Hapi hoped Yuri-bird and Big B would take care of Coco. She would need it.

As for herself, she had never cared much about in the first place. Not for a long time.

Once within striking range, Jeritza finally sensed something was amiss and he stopped. Hapi kept breathing, in and out, in and out. “So you are the sacrifice?” he intoned in that dead voice. “A Dark Mage? Curious….” He trailed off and leveled his sword at her, inches from her face. “What is your name? I will grant you the courtesy of telling me before you die.”

Hapi paused in her sighing and grimly smiled up at him. “Wait for it--”

Jeritza surprisingly did. He hesitated in striking her down, suddenly checking all around him, behind him, shifting into a defensive stance. Something--maybe his own Crest blood, or his battle intuition--told him what was happening. “What have you done?” he asked fiercely, as they both felt the ground start to rumble. Hapi kept breathing through her nose, in and out, in and out, extending her exhalations, because now her mouth was grinning. A vicious, monstrous, predatory grin.

When it happened, it happened all at once.

A pack of dire wolves came charging down the street behind them, their jaws slavering and snarling.

A trio of wurms erupted from street cobbles ahead of them, roaring and drooling acid.

A flight of vulture rocs screamed from the sky, their heavy wings beating massive downdrafts, then dove upon them both.

Hapi took exquisite pleasure in seeing Jeritza’s pale eyes grow wide with surprise behind his mask as the monsters surrounded them, their cries and roars and snarls becoming deafening.

_Bye-bye, Coco. Love ya._

  
  


*

  
  


Annette stumbled after Ashe and Caspar, still crying after the terrible event they had just witnessed. Her feet felt shredded after an endless day of walking, then fighting, then running away. Away from Jeritza, and all of those monsters that had suddenly appeared. The sweet band of rogues who had helped them, Yuri and Connie and that other redheaded tan girl...they were probably all dead now.

They joined more and more people walking up the massive hill to Garreg Mach Monastery, numb and exhausted and soulsick. They couldn’t even comprehend what they had seen, much less talk about it, so the two Blue Lions and Black Eagle marched with the multitude of men and women from the town seeking shelter, fathers carrying their children and mothers clutching crying babies, moving numbly past the dead bodies and twisted smells of the battlefield just before the gates.

“Oh! Annie!” screamed a voice.

Annette dumbly raised her head, unable to do much else, her vision starting to blur. Mercedes ran up to her and hugged her deeply, stopping them at the side of the stream of humanity.

“Dear Annie, I’m so happy you’re alive,” whispered Mercedes.

Annette sniffled in her friend’s chest, suddenly overcome. “Oh Mercie...Mercie...something really bad happened…”

Mercedes hugged her tighter. “Shush now. You can tell me later, after we eat and rest.”

“Hey Ashe! Caspar! What’re you guys doing here?” cried Sylvain, running up to join the group. Dorothea and Ingrid were dully following him, side by side, their green eyes hollow and haunted.

“Oh...hey,” managed a subdued Caspar as Ashe hugged Sylvain. “Glad you guys made it. Um...where’s the rest? It’s all right, you can tell me.”

“They ran off to help with the battle,” croaked Dorothea, her voice hoarse. “I guess we’ll find out at the monastery what happened.” Ingrid limped forward and draped her arms over Mercedes and Annette, too exhausted for tears. It was hard to communicate with just a hug, but Annette poured her soul into it. She was delighted to be alive and see her friends, but at the same time...

Eventually they stepped back and saw the others reunite as well. “Hey, big sis,” smiled Caspar sadly as he leaned against Dorothea. “You look and sound like shit.”

“Feel like it too,” coughed Dorthea as she ruffled Caspar’s hair before draping an arm around him. “I’m glad to see you alive, Cas.”

“Glad to be alive,” Caspar muttered, looking back at the town in the sunset, the distant roars still coming from town. “Some crazy stuff went down there. Then those monsters everywhere, just to top it off.”

“Monsters? Wait, I think I know how. You ran into Hapi, didn’t you?”

“Um, buff redhead? With a tan? Looked like she could cast magic but still beat your ass too?”

Smiling tiredly, Dorothea nodded, “That’s her. She can summon monsters when she sighs. You might have run into Yuri too…”

“Yeah,” sniffed Caspar, his head down. “Pretty guy. Or girl. With a sword. Couldn’t tell. They healed me. And…”

“It’s okay, little bro. We’re all numb,” said Dorothea, hugging him with her arm. They all started moving again, marching through the mud up the hill. “We can talk later.”

Caspar angrily shook his head at his friend. “No, no, people need to know,” he raised his voice. “I thought he was an okay guy, a strong good guy, but he went crazy. I think he killed them all!”

“Who’s that?” said Sylvain over his shoulder.

Ashe answered, by his side, his head bowed. “Professor Jeritza. He must’ve killed them. My old friend from House Rowe, Yuri. He saved me and...and then that nice magician girl, he just...he cut her arm off…”

“Wait? Yuri’s dead? How? Why?” gasped Dorothea.

It was too much of a reminder. “Poor Constance…” Annette sobbed from where she was waking between Ingrid and Mercedes.

Mercedes stopped still beside her at her words. “Annie? Who do you mean...by Constance?”

The group stopped once more as Caspar and Annette attempted to explain. “Constance von Nuvelle...she saved us in town with her magic...she said she remembered you, Mercie…” explained Annette, but the memory was too much. The swipe of the sword. The casual brutality of it all. Annette felt the tears begin to stream freely down her face, and she couldn’t help herself.

“She’s here? Connie is here in town?” asked Mercedes, looking bewildered. Annette felt Ingrid holding her up, rubbing her back as the tears kept coming.

“She was. Professor Jeritza killed her. Just because she called him some different name. Bartels or something,” managed Caspar, angrily rubbing at his eyes.

“Bartels?” said Mercedes, Dorothea, and Sylvain simultaneously. Sylvain looked back at Mercedes, clearly off balance. “That was your old family name, right?”

“Y--yes…” stammered Mercedes.

“And you used to have a little brother, right? I remember you telling me stories about him?” the redhead continued.

Dorothea gasped at Mercedes before she could reply, her eyes wide. “Oh Goddess. The hair. Yours and Jeritza’s hair. It’s an exact match. How did I not see that?”

“So wait? Professor Jeritza is...your little brother?” wondered Ingrid, confused.

“Emile…” whispered Mercedes, looking from face to face, her hand to her mouth. “He’s alive! Then he was here...he...was training me...but he didn’t say anything...I don’t understand…”

“That’s it! That’s what Constance called him! Emile von Bartels,” said Caspar excitedly, then his face fell. “But then Jeritza walked up to her and just...just…”

Mercedes was uncomprehending. Maybe, Annette thought, she still didn’t want to admit the truth. “What?! Please, tell me what?”

Annette turned her face up and hugged her best friend tight, tears still coming from her eyes. “He killed her, Mercie. He killed Connie.”

Mercedes stared straight ahead. Annette’s heart fell apart at her dazed, distant expression.

Sylvain instantly moved by her side to support her back as she swayed. “Mercedes...I’m so sorry.”

“Oh.”

Annette did her best to help steady her friend. “Mercie--? Are you okay?”

“Oh.”

Ingrid took charge. “Sylvain, let’s guide her by her elbows...I’ll get the other…we’ll walk her up with us...C’mon, Mercedes, let’s just keep walking...”

“Oh.”

  
  


*

Caspar lingered behind as the rest of them supported the nearly catanoic Mercedes up through the gate of Garreg Mach. There were still healers moving about the wounded being brought here near the epicenter of the battlefield, where the fighting had been the hardest. He wondered if Lin was among them, but he didn’t see any green hair among the torches and lanterns being struck up--

\--wait, there! Was that? No, that was just Flayn. She was healing somebody important, probably. Sighing, Caspar turned around and looked in the other direction.

He could have just asked someone. But somehow, words weren’t what he wanted right now. Words might make something real, something he didn’t want to be real. It was easier just to keep looking, and depend on himself, even though he felt like he was about to drop.

Jeritza’s betrayal kept returning to Caspar’s thoughts like a bad taste. There was a difference between a warrior and an indiscriminate killer. Wasn’t there? Was that why he wore a mask, and said he was someone different? Because people would find out who he really is? Caspar hated deception, hated people claimed to be one thing but instead were really another. It was why he appreciated Linhardt so much; Lin freely admitted his shortcomings, made no apologies for who he was, and never hesitated to speak his mind, no matter what. It was like they were two different sides of the same coin, except Caspar handled the physical, while Linhardt handled the mental.

_Lin...where are you? You gotta be here..._

A yawn behind him. “There you are. I walked all the way to town looking for you, you know. Tiresome.”

Caspar froze, then slowly turned around.

Linhardt had never looked so good in torchlight, the same sleepy, sardonic expression on his face as he looked across the dark battlefield. “What a day, right? It’s been absolutely disgusting up here. I don’t think I’m ever going to stop smelling like blood and shit and piss. I mean, you read stories about how a battlefield smells, but it’s so much worse than I expected.” Another yawn. “I’m exhausted. How about you? I think I’ll actually sleep the entire night through for once. Maybe the day after as well.”

Caspar rubbed his eyes.

“You look in decent shape after a fight, amazingly enough. I’d thought you’d be chopped to pieces by now. I’m impressed, really. Did you have to kill anyone today? I think I did. I mean, not like I was checking their pulses to make sure, of course, but I did have to cast several wind spells--”

Caspar rushed forward.

“Woof. Um, ow, that’s my spine. Errggg...and my ribs.” Caspar eased Linhardt back to the ground, and Lin put his robed arms around Caspar’s neck, hugging him back, stroking his teal hair. “Hmm...was it that bad? I’m sorry. Things have been rough up here too. I’ve got so much I want to tell you about...maybe we can talk about it and compare experiences? After we grab some food, obviously. You look famished.”

Caspar buried his face into Linhardt’s collarbone. “Lin. Lin, I am so glad you’re alive.”

  
  


*

  
  


Marianne sighed from her place beside the sleeping Prince where she held his limp hand in her own. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to do more for him.”

“Please hush from saying such things. You have done wonderfully, dear child,” smiled Flayn as she laid shining hands over Dimitri’s body, his torn armor and clothing stripped aside, leaving him only in a draped cloth for modesty. Seteth’s sister was channeling her power slowly and carefully in the Prince, restoring tissue and bone, especially in the hands. The bloody, four pronged war arrow plucked from Dimitri’s broad shoulder lay nearby. Guarding his liege lord despite all that had occurred, Dedue loomed nearby like a monolith carved from metal and frowns.

The Alliance noblewoman had never seen Dimitri unclothed before. She had expected some scars, yes, because he came from a line of warrior Kings; but the mass of faded scars and old burns that coated his pale torso and arms was truly beyond belief. Staring at them, she wondered if he knew the history and story of each one, and was reminded of his memories every time he gazed upon himself when dressing or bathing…

Blushing, Marianne peeked up to see Dedue regarding her. It only made her cheeks flame further, but everyone had agreed that she should stay by Dimitri’s side as long as possible. Felix himself had praised her for “taming the boar” before Petra led him away. Claude had singled her out for accolades, promising everyone would know her story. Even Dedue did not object to her presence. _Much_ , she thought.

“Flayn?” she whispered.

“Hmm,” mumbled the strange girl, concentrating on healing the long axe gash in Dimitri’s side properly.

“How can I...we make the Prince better? For good?”

“I am sorry to say there is no easy answer to such things,” said Flayn sadly, light still shining from her hands. “It takes much time and love and caring. Bodies can be similar to one another, enough that if you can heal one, you can heal almost all. But every mind is unique and special.”

Marianne bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I guess I knew that...but you’re so much better at healing than I am, I thought…”

Her job complete as Dimitri’s skin flushed into a new pink scar, Flayn let the light from her hands dim. She silently regarded Marianne for a moment with her intense green eyes, then reached over to hold Marianne’s other hand in her small and delicate one. Marianne felt uncomfortable, because it was like Flayn was seeing right through her. And saw what a bad, wicked, selfish creature was inside.

“My dear one. You have been hurt so much in the past. And it lingers inside of you, does it not?”

Her past actions and cursed blood hovered in her thoughts. “...yes,” she nodded finally.

“So it is with our lonely Prince here,” said Flayn sadly, patting Dimitri’s shoulder. “He carries too many burdens, too much pain, for one man, even a Prince.” Flayn’s warm eyes shifted up to Dedue. “Would you not agree, Sir Dedue?”

Dedue’s lips compressed into a thin line, not a frown or a smile. But slowly he nodded. “I would not disagree with that assessment, Lady Flayn.”

Smiling, Flayn’s green curls swayed as she turned back to Marianne. “Some burdens cannot be discarded. But what we can do is let them not cause us...or others...pain. Many pains are self-inflicted, or turned out against the world itself. Because we think less of ourselves, we think we must bring about suffering. But the Goddess does not wish that for us. She would much prefer us to live lives of joy and faith and trust, even with our burdens. All of us are her Blessed Children, even such wayward souls as the sad Lord Lonato.”

Marianne rubbed a tear that had fallen onto her cheek. “I know that...or at least I want to...that’s why I try so very hard to pray to the Goddess. She’s given me so much strength over the years...but I only seem to be able to help certain people. Not myself...and not him,” Marianne whispered sadly, finally letting go of Dimitri’s hand.

“Part of healing is wanting to be healed,” smiled Flyan, squeezing her hand tight. “All things have their proper place. Let the body heal the body; let the mind heal the mind; and let the spirit…”

“...heal the spirit,” smiled back Marianne, her grey eyes shining excitedly in the dim light. “The Book of Cethleann, verse 27: lines 16 and 17! That’s my favorite. You’ve read through it too, Flayn?”

Flayn’s smile took on a decidedly odd cast. “Once or twice.” She stood, brushing at the dirt and bloodstains on her old-fashioned robes. “We will call for some Knights to help carry him to a secure and private room. I am certain that once we fully explain the situation to Lady Rhea and my brother, we can come up with a plan for his care.”

“His Highness is grateful,” rumbled Dedue, nodding down to them both.

Marianne stood as well, her eyes falling to the sleeping form of the Prince. Asleep, without armor, he looked little more than a boy. An orphan boy covered in gruesome scars. “I...I think it would be best if I’m nearby. Just in case he has another...episode.”

Flayn smiled and took her hand once more, leading her away from Dimitri. “Sir Dedue will guard him for now. When the time comes, I will be your advocate when talking to the others. But let us get you refreshed and rested, first. And allow me to say that I am proud of you. You have done the Goddess’ work today, Marianne.”

Such a direct compliment made Marianne shake her head in downcast denial. “No. What I did...what I’ve done...was for selfish reasons…”

“All reasoning is selfish, to a degree. All that matters is the work is done all the same. Come, let us away.”

  
  


*

  
  


Dorothea finally left Mercedes in the care of Sylvain, Annette, Ashe, and Ingrid in Mercedes’ room, convinced that the presence of others would convince Sylvain to behave himself. Before she left, she reached out and laid a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder, which the noblewoman barely acknowledged. She was the type of woman who focused solely on others, without regard to herself or her own emotions. For her own good, Dorothea had to admit to herself that intense focus and regard from Lady Galatea would now never include her.

Wandering aimlessly through the less crowded student dormitories, Dorothea felt a sense of unreality creep in on her, after the stressful events of the day. She was too keyed up to rest, even though her body felt wretched and dirty. She had to keep moving, if only to keep her mind from turning in on itself, becoming a prisoner of her own thoughts. Every time she came to her own room, she turned around and walked the other way, just trying to keep busy with motion, even though her legs were starting to feel dense and heavy.

Passing by one door, Dorothea heard a muffled sob, wretched in its misery.

She had to pause to orient herself after staring at the ground for so long. Bernadetta’s room. Of course. She was sure the battle had been terrible for the poor dear, although she was pleased to know she was alive. You had to be alive to feel miserable about it.

Knocking, she called out, “Bern? It’s Dorothea. Do you want to talk?”

Expecting a denial, she was astonished when the door soon unlatched from its numerous locks, and swung open. The smaller girl rushed out to give Dorothea a surprisingly strong hug

“Dorothea! Oh, I’m the worst person in the world! I hate myself! I’m a killer and a monster and I dropped my bow and Anna had to give me a new one and then I shot Prince Dimitri and helped bring him back and I saved Dedue but it’s like he doesn’t even want to talk to me because I’ll always be number two in his eyes to Dimitri so of course he hates me now because I shot his liege lord in the shoulder and I might have accidentally caused a war between the Empire and Faerghus--”

“Bern! Slow down!” At the interruption, Bernadetta burst out into another storm of weeping. Dorothea felt put off by such childish behavior, but then remembered her actions with Ingrid at the inn. No wonder Ingrid had slapped her. Shamed at her thoughts, she said softly to her classmate, “Would you like to sit with me and talk in my quarters? We can have tea. And just talk about things. Slowly. I want to listen and hear what you’ve been through.”

Settling into sniffles, Bernadetta slowly nodded, and after relocking her door with her five keys, let Dorothea put a comforting arm around her shoulder and lead her down to her room.

  
  


*

  
  


Leonie pounded on the nobleman’s door. “Hey Lorenz! Open up!”

Waiting patiently for the lazy noble’s son to open the door, Leonie stretched a bit in her fresh academy uni, working the kinks out of her draw arm. She idly wondered how many men she had killed today. You couldn’t really count the ones with archery, but going by after when Lonato had broken the gates, she remembered at least three in the guard tower, then four (or was it five?) during the counter-attack, and then there was the one Claude had stabbed in the back, but she got the kill, so maybe that counted as half…?

Lornez opened his door just as Leonie had her elbow above her ear, trying to pull the tightness out of her tricep. His brows rose nearly to his hairline at the sight before he met her eyes.

“Showing off your muscles, Leonie? How very...Raphael of you.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said absently, grimacing as she completed her count. She lowered her arm, rotating it. “Got a message for you. Captain says your all’s disciplinary review will be held in Seteth’s office in two days’ time, in the morning. Classes are cancelled for the next week too. Everyone’s still running like headless hens down there.”

Lorenz closed his eyes and gave a small sigh as he reluctantly nodded. “I see. I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.”

“You should. So hey, Lorenz. I know we kinda rubbed each other wrong when we first met, but for whatever my opinion’s worth, I hope you don’t get expelled. But even if you do, I still think you’re a nice guy and a good fighter, despite your attitude.” Leonie held out her hand to shake.

Lorenz stared at it. Then looked back up to her.

“You are holding it the entirely wrong way,” he sighed.

She blinked. “I’m holding my hand...the wrong way to shake?”

Faint color was rising to Lorenz’s cheeks, but instead he asked, “May I?”

Leonie slowly nodded, not sure to what she was agreeing. So she was slightly unprepared when Lorenz straightened his back, putting his left arm behind him, and reached out with his right to grasp her offered hand.

Then he bowed and kissed her back of her scarred fingers with the softest of whispers.

“The pleasure has been all mine, Miss Pinelli.”

The contact sent a flush and chills simultaneously through her body. Weird. Lorenz and his noble habits were so weird.

She quickly drew back her hand, rubbing the spot where his lips had touched, unable to look at his face as he rose. Feeling herself becoming flustered, she said, “I hope you won’t do that to every mercenary you meet in the future, Lorenz.”

She saw him shake his purple head firmly, entirely serious. “Only one. If I ever have the honor of meeting her again.”

The free compliments were baffling. Shaking her head, Leonie said, “Saints, Lorenz. I’ll just be a merc, and you’ll eventually be a Count.”

Lorenz smiled widely. “‘Only the best damn merc in all of Fodlan,’ was it not? While nobles like me are all-too-common, I’ve come to realize.”

Her cheeks were flaming. How could he say all these things so casually? Maybe it was because he really might be leaving. They usually bickered all the time, but it dawned on her that she would miss him. And their arguments. Maybe he was realizing that, too. She vainly tried to avert her face. “Um, thanks.”

“Why Leonie, you have quite the color on your face. It matches your hair. I daresay it suits you.”

“Aw c’mon,” protested Leonie, but then started flushing harder in anger. “Now you’re just teasing me for sport! Is that all I am? Just another blushing common girl for you to have your fun with? Flames, all I wanted to do is shake your hand.”

Color returned back to Lorenz’s face. “No, of course not. Please forgive me. I simply...am unused to shaking a lady’s hand. Or anyone’s, really.”

“Okay, I’m not a lady, but fine. I know you--” Leonie stopped and squinted suspiciously at him. “You don’t know how to shake hands, do you?”

Lorenz was the one blushing, now. He sniffed and refused to answer.

“Tell me the truth, Lorenz,” she demanded with a glare, folding her arms.

He snobbishly raised himself up even higher. “I refuse to see how that has the slightest bearing--”

“Oh Goddess, you really don’t, do you?” she threw up her hands in despair. “Okay. I refuse to possibly let you go out in the world without knowing how to do this. You and your limp wrist will be the laughingstock of the Alliance!”

“Limp wrist?!” said a horrified Lorenz, his right hand in front of him and dangling in the air like an untethered balloon. Leonie ignored him and brushed past him into his room, affronting the nobleman even further.

She began picking through his tea set on the far wall, selecting a brand and a pot without a care. “What are you doing?” demanded Lorenz slowly, his decorum failing him.

Leonie’s orange eyes scowled back at him. “I’m making tea. This is going to take a while, so we might as well get comfortable. I’m serious, Lorenz. If you don’t know how to shake hands, no commoner is ever going to respect you. Period.”

“There is the etiquette of bowing--”

Teacups and saucers clattered as she picked some at random from his cupboard. “Which almost no commoner even knows how to do, right? I’m not going to--Holy Seiros, Cichol and Cethleann! How many tea sets do you even own?!”

He put a hand to his forehead. “Just pick whichever two cups you prefer, Leonie. Make sure they at least match.”

Fine china clattered. “Fine. As I was saying, no commoner will bow to you. Not until you learn how to shake hands like a real man.”

Despite himself, Lorenz chuckled at her antics and moved to retrieve his water pitcher to rinse and fill the teapot. “I suppose you know what a real man is, my dear Lioness?”

“Better than you do, apparently.”

“Very well,” said Lorenz, ignoring the insult. “You may teach me how to shake hands, if you will allow me to show you how to make tea like a proper hostess.”

“Deal. Let’s get started.” She smirked at him and held out her hand.

  
  


*

  
  


Edelgard stood in a long, flowing red robe, staring at the pieces of scorched and blacked armor on the red rug of her dorm, armor she had worn into battle just hours earlier.

_Thank Sothis._

It was impossible.

_I prayed._

There was no precedent.

_To the Goddess._

For a human, at least.

_You’re safe._

She clenched her fists so hard that the fabric of her white gloves started to tear, her emotions threatening to crack free of her cage of will.

What _was_ Byleth?

An agent provocateur of the Church? A “White Shadow,” one of the Assassins of Seiros? (She and Hubert were proceeding on the assumption that Shamir, and possibly Catherine, numbered among these ranks.) Was Jeralt ever really a mercenary, or was that simply cover for a long term mission to train his devious spawn into becoming a deadly agent of Rhea? Was Byleth healing her from death some hidden gambit by the Church, simply because they wanted their pawn to cozen more secrets from the Imperial Heir with her simpering, farm girl act?

But all of those unfounded speculations clashed with reality. Byleth had had few emotions until she had met her. The Knight was all but ready to eat out of her palm. (Edelgard shivered slightly at that mental image.) She was blunt and honest and forthright, and thus it was all but impossible to believe her capable of long-term deceit, unless she was witless herself. She had saved Edelgard’s life from Kostas, and then had asked for no reward but to be her friend. Their first meeting had been nothing but happenstance. Right?

Her imagination was running wild, Edelgard finally decided. A product of battle fatigue, and a near-death experience. If the Church knew a tenth, even a hundredth of what she had planned, Enbarr would already be in flames from the Immaculate One, with the Knights of Seiros calling for a Holy Crusade upon the Empire of Adrestia.

But still...what _was_ Byleth? What was her mystery Crest that could allow her to cast one of the most powerful spells in existence, a feat reputed to be impossible by mortals?

And why would the Goddess have healed her, Edelgard von Hresvelg, of all people?

Then she remembered Linhardt’s casual sarcasm from this morning: _Just ask her, Edelgard. You’re making this more difficult than it has to be._ The Imperial Princess scowled at the memory, refusing to believe anything, or anyone, so powerful could be so simple. She ran through the possibilities once more.

Was Byleth truly a Saint Reborn, as some had already begun to whisper? Could she have one of the Major Holy Crests? But if she had a Crest of Seiros, Cichol, Cethleann, Macuil, or Indech, Edelgard would have recognized it from her Crest empathy. Just as she had eventually recognized the Crest of Seiros in Jeralt, her father.

Surely it could not be one of the Ten Elite Crests. Those too were easily recognized.

That left...the Crests of the Four Apostles. All supposedly extinct bloodlines. Along with mere rumored and unverified Crests, such as the Crest of Ernest. Could Byleth’s mother be one of those?

It might be possible…

A note slid under her locked door, and after a muffled curse beyond the door, so did...parts of a flower. Then hasty footsteps ran off and a door in the hallway slammed.

More cautious than ever, Edelgard slowly eyed the items, then walked over to pick them up. The flower was--or used to be--an orange carnation. One of her favorites, meaning proposal or commitment in the old fashioned flower language. Although shoving it under a door was--unwise--perhaps it truly was the thought that counted.

She read the note:

_Hey Princess,_

_I’m glad you’re alive. I’m glad I’M alive. And I’m glad Dimitri’s alive, too._

_I know this might not be your top thing on the to-do list, but I think he’ll need you when he wakes up. He lost control of who he is because he thought you, his stepsister, was dead._

_So I know we wanted to play chess, but let’s rain check on that and instead help our future northern neighbor. I think a sane King on the throne of Faerghus is a good thing, don’t you?_

_Claude_

_PS Please convey my thanks to Princess Petra and Lady Varley for their help today. Lord Fraldarius and Mister Morilano told me how instrumental they were in subduing Dimitri without harm._

Edelgard laughed softly after she had finished reading, amused by Claude’s temerity. Of course they were playing chess, just with living pieces. The postscript carried the implicit threat of losing Petra and Bernadetta to the Blue Lions; and there was the absence of any mention of Lady Marianne and Dimitri’s relationship, of which she was well aware. Claude obviously thought that was his checkmate against any refusal she might make, although she had to admit the threat of an Alliance Queen with a Faerghus King, uniting the two nations by blood, was a formidable one. But at the same time, Claude was clearly afraid of a sibling relationship, though not a blood one, between Adrestia and Faerghus. She mentally saluted the future Duke Riegan on his clear political acumen.

But she already knew who was harboring a secret Crest of their own. The Crest of the Beast. Her agents had been diligent at work nipping that threat to the Empire in the bud.

Although Claude could propose Hilda or Lysithea as well, if he was truly interested in that international alliance. Lysithea might be self-disqualifying, for multiple reasons, but Edelgard privately thought that a possible Goneril/Blaidydd marriage would be the stuff of nightmares. A child from that union could be powerful beyond measure. But she had a distinct feeling that Claude would dislike that match for his own reasons.

Petra was another matter. Her reported involvement with Felix was...worrisome. Petra was an honest, forthright girl, and would be a more than capable Queen of her nation one day, but she could also be mulish when provoked. A Brigid revolt on the side of Faerghus would be almost as dangerous to the Empire as an Alliance-Kingdom pact. Then there was the possibility of a future Brigid King or Queen, bearing the Crest of Fraldarius in the future...

Not for the first time tonight, Edelgard cursed her “allies” that she nearly had died from today and had caused this situation. Their ilk were almost stupidly self-destructive in their clumsy, childish machinations, because their technological prowess and magical might gave their already inflated egos immunity from any honest self-appraisal of their abilities or beliefs. And they were rigidly tautological in their smug sense of superiority. If she had survived the attack from Lonato, it only proved their “weapon” was ready. If she had died, then it only proved that the “beasts” they experimented upon were weak. Their ideology could never fail, it could only be failed. And their grotesque hypocrisy in playing with the powers of Rhea and the Crest system showed how truly afraid they were of the powers of the Church, because those were the only weapons they considered worthy of cultivating. But in the meantime, she barely had the time to fend off the far more competent schemes from other political players that were far more long-term and threatening to the future of the Empire, compared to casual, sloppy work of long-lived, demi-human chameleons who could carelessly shed their skins at will.

In that way, they were much like the Church of Seiros, thought Edelgard with a flash of dark humor. Two groups of immortals, who instead of bothering with playing chess, just scattered the pieces and upended the board in a fit at the mere thought of losing. They both needed to be destroyed for the humanity of Fodlan to reclaim their right to self-determination and free will.

She had just placed both the note and crushed flower in a hidden drawer in her desk when a low, patterned knock came at her door.

Ah. Hubert. He must be bringing her requested…”guest.”

“Come in,” she announced loudly.

The tall Hubert eagerly escorted the slightly shorter form of Ferdinand von Aegir into her room. Ferdinand slapped Hubert's hands off of him, then ignored him completely. As if it was his own wish to be here, he asked with smooth aplomb, “You wished to see me, Edelgard?”

“I did. Hubert, please stand outside my door.”

That brought a scowl, but the tall mage only said, “Lady Edelgard.” With one last glare of venom at Ferdinand, the Lord Vestra exited the room, closing her door.

Edelgard was silent for a moment in observation, assessing Ferdinand in a new light. The events of today had seemed to have changed him, in some odd way she could not put a finger on. When before he would have launched into excited bluster or chatter, Ferdinand now waited patiently for her to speak, although he was eyeing the ruined pieces of armor on her rug.

It was best to start obliquely. “An interesting day,” she said dryly.

“A most historical one,” he responded with a smile. “It’s not everyday the future Emperor is healed by a Saint Reborn.”

An unpleasant thrill went through her. “You honestly believe that?”

Ferdinand nodded. “I do. I saw it twice, as if the Goddess knew my own doubts and wanted to wash them away. I had the privilege of being next to Lady Byleth on both occasions.” He cocked his head. “What was the experience like for you?”

Edelgard refused to discuss anything so private with Ferdinand. “An experience,” she said shortly. “Although I have scant memories of anything before attacking Lonato. But...this is partially a reason I wanted to see you. You witnessed the first so-called miracle, yes?”

Now Ferdinand scowled. “They were miracles, Edelgard. There is no other explanation.”

“That has yet to be verified by the Church,” she reminded him. “But please, I wish to hear of your observations...as a representative of the Empire.”

That placated his ego. Ferdinand relaxed and stared into the distance. “Before the first time, we were in the process of finally killing a giant wurm that Lonato had somehow summoned in town. Dorothea was in danger of being eaten by the monster, and Lady Ingrid valiantly charged in her defense. The snap of the creature’s beak killed her pegasus in a single bite, and then they were both thrown to the ground. Dorothea finished off the monster after that, but Lady Ingrid was grievously wounded.”

Edelgard bowed her head in sympathy. “I have seen injuries from soldiers who fall still attached to their pegasi. They are usually fatal.”

“As this would have been, if not for Lady Byleth’s intervention. We pulled her mount off of her, but it was clear she had only moments. She said her good-byes to Sylvain and Dorothea…”

Her eyes widened. Dorothea was involved with Ingrid? She had been truly blind lately.

“...and was prepared to meet her end. Our lovely songstress was in a dreadful state and tried to heal her friend, but her skills were insufficient. Then...Lady Byleth stepped forward. She asked to be shown how to heal from Dorothea, but I am certain that was only a kind courtesy, to allow her to take part in the healing herself.”

“She asked Dorothea... _how_ to heal?” Edelgard raised a white brow.

“I believe I said so. Dorothea was very brave to go through with the short lesson, but it is my opinion that the true lesson was for Dorothea herself. In any case, Byleth’s hands shone with silver fire, and Lady Ingrid’s shattered leg and broken hips were healed in a manner of seconds. And then...the light swept over all of us. Everyone who had been hurt. Sylvain, Knight Catherine, the strange red haired girl and dark haired man--I’m sorry, I barely had time to meet them--all in the area were healed, and the rest of us felt rested and revitalized. Lorenz even mentioned to me his magical energy was restored.”

“Impossible.”

Ferdinand shrugged. “That word does not seem to mean much from the events of today. Garreg Mach Monastery, attacked for the first time in millenia. Lonato wielding a Relic, or something akin to it, despite having no Crest. And a strange woman, one of the youngest Knights of Seiros in history, who can heal the most gruesome injuries.” He glanced down significantly at her blasted armor. “I saw your body, Edelgard. You looked as if Bernadetta had put you into an oven and left you there overnight. I doubt even Hubert’s Elixir could have saved you.”

“Ah, that reminds me. Some quarrelling is only natural, Ferdinand, but breaking noses is a bit much.”

“And did Hubert tell you what prompted such a reaction from me?” smiled Ferdinand.

Edelgard frowned. “Only that he was careless with his words.”

Her classmate stepped towards her desk and motioned. “Then allow me to repeat it, but only in writing. I will not let such a vile insult sully my lips.” Edelgard inclined her head and Ferdinand quickly took a scrap of parchment and uncorked the inkwell. Dipping the quill, he quickly scratched out a phrase and finished, then handed the scrap to Edelgard.

She carefully regarded the words. Nodding, she raised her eyes to Ferdinand. “You are forgiven on his behalf. If he retaliates or continues, please bring it to my attention. I will deal with it.” Holding the paper aloft in her white gloves, a small burst of anima ignited it to ash.

“I am pleased,” he nodded back. Then he gave a small smile. “It seems someone’s loyal vassal is just a little bit jealous of his Lady’s attention for another.”

“If you are done with your teasing, Ferdinand, the door is behind you. Thank you for your time.”

He backed away to the door, but was not quite done. “Allow me to say one thing more, Edelgard.” She motioned for him to continue. “I...have been changed by the events of today. Not just the battle, although that may be part of it. But after seeing Lady Byleth’s actions...I truly do believe she walks in step with the Goddess. And I pray that does not thwart the bond between the two of you.”

Edelgard turned away to hide her flush. “Thank you for that, Ferdinand, but this is not a confessional. Please go before you embarrass yourself further. Good night.”

Ferdinand walked to the door, then paused and said over his shoulder, “She cares for you. I hope you feel the same.”

“ _Just go,_ Ferdinand.” A harsh command.

Bowing, the Prime Minister’s son opened the door, and said a curt, “Lord Vestra.” There was a brief moment of tension as Ferdinand shouldered past Hubert, but then the tall mage entered the room and closed it behind him.

“I hope you managed to put him in his place, Lady Edelgard,” said Hubert, moving to stand near her. Not so near so to be threatening, but...close, for people like them. How had she not noticed it before?

Edelgard stiffened. With Hubert, all obliqueness could be set aside. “How long have you been jealous of Byleth?” she demanded, her glare flinty as she regarded her retainer.

Hubert rocked back, his pale gold eyes off-guard.

“And just what...do you _think_...about ‘smelly little lesbians?’” said Edelgard, her tone frosty and imperious.

His pallor increasing if it were possible, Hubert instantly knelt low in obeisance. “I was frightened for My Lady’s life. I had no idea of Lady Byleth’s abilities, or what she was doing. The stress of combat, Lady Edelgard. My insult was a disgrace to you, Lady Byleth, myself, and to the Empire. I assure you, I shall punish myself for my lapse.”

Edelgard paused at this, as she could believe whatever punishment Hubert would choose for himself would be far more vicious than her own imagination. If she demanded that he flagellate himself like the monks of Macuil of old, she knew he would. But this ran deeper than mere insults and phobias. No, the true issue was…

“Hubert. How long have you been in love with me?”

Her retainer glanced up from his place on the floor, eyeing her with his green gold eyes through his long black hair. Yet he grimaced and said nothing.

This just confirmed her worst fears. Edelgard sighed and pulled out her desk chair to sit in, and regarded her oldest and most trusted friend. Staring at him, regarding her intently as was his wont, she shook her head and rubbed her face tiredly. This was a conversation she had feared might happen. “Hubert,” she began softly as she was able. “I can appreciate it. I can accept it. But know this. I can never return it. The way you may want me to.”

“I have...always known that, on some level, my Lady,” he said slowly. “Yet foolish hope does spring eternal. But my respect for you outweighs any fear you should have of me. My life is in your service. I am pleased with that, no matter any other outcome. Even now, I am in awe of your awareness, your grace, your sensitivity. And I can but hope that I have not offended you past forgiveness.”

“So you were jealous, my old friend? Such a hot passion for you. Without Ferdinand telling me I would have never suspected.”

  
From the floor, Hubert shrugged. “I did not believe Lady Byleth worthy of you before. But I do now. Although we must still be wary.”

“How so?” asked Edelgard, deeply disappointed but still willing to hear him out.

“I have begun to see how you are attracted to her, my Lady. She is powerful. Power attracts power, as strength attracts strength. You intuitively sensed her own abilities before she was even aware of them.” Hubert relaxed on the floor, falling back on his haunches. “But we know nothing of her allegiance. She was raised within the Empire, ‘tis true. But there is also a deep and disturbing connection to the Church of Seiros, through her father. And Lady Rhea is obviously fascinated with her, as a cat batting about a toy.”

“I know of this, Hubert. But please tell me why the insult?”

Hubert flushed, though not at her. “I...was uncouth. I meant to shock her away with my words so that I could administer the medicine. And also test her mettle. But she ignored me entirely. Her only concern was for you and her father. Ferdinand is also stronger than he appears.”

Edelgard remained silent. Hubert sweated under her regard, then finally relented.

“And I...hoped you would be different, Your Majesty. I admit to being prejudiced...and selfish.”

Edelgard felt something break between her and Hubert. Sometimes, honesty did not build trust. Instead, it shattered it. “Why, my friend?” she asked sadly.

“Because you should have children,” said Hubert, his eyes gleaming at hers. “Our campaign is by no means guaranteed. So contingencies for the future should be plotted. One of those would be...the heirs to the Empire. That even if we fail in the time of our mortal drama, your children could still succeed.” Hubert bowed his head, his black stringy hair hanging over his face. “We face immortals, Lady Edelgard. Somehow, someway, we must be immortal in response.”

His reasoning was sound. But still… “Hubert. You know me better than anyone. I...I am not like that. I will never bear children. The Hresvelg line ends with me. And that is my decision.”

“But it is a crime, Lady Edelgard,” said Hubert softly from the floor. “I care nothing for blood or lineages. But the thought that none else in this world will have your will, your strength, your compassion, your grace.” He shook his head up at her. “It has nothing to do with foolish romance or trifling affairs. It was everything to do with seeing what mighty progeny you could have. Because they are from your loins alone would make them worthy and full of merit.”

It was touching. It was disturbing. She would need time to sort out her feelings on the matter, although Hubert had overstepped himself. But then again, she had asked him, had she not? Repeatedly. And he had answered without hesitation. Turning to her desk, unwilling to look at him for the moment, Edelgard said, “Let us put this matter into permanent abeyance until I give permission otherwise.”

Hubert rose back to one knee and bowed his head. “Yes, Lady Edelgard.”

It was almost like things were back to normal between them. But not quite. They ignored the sense of fragility anyway.

More concerned with the other events of the day, Edelgard demanded, “I would hear your opinion of the so-called ‘Fortify’ spell. Ferdinand is already quite smitten, although I can hardly blame him. He is an incorrigible romantic. I wish to hear your analysis of the experience.”

Hubert unconsciously rubbed his nose. “It was...appropriately mystical. I can see now why Ferdinand interrupted me. Byleth healed you, as well as her father, far more completely than I would have expected even in my wildest dreams. Even my own shattered nose was put into place, as well as feeling…” here Hubert stopped.

Edelgard surged up in her chair. “Feeling what, Hubert? Tell me everything. I must know if what you consciously felt matches my own feelings when I was being directly healed.”

Shifting a bit on the floor, her retainer nodded back to her. He tried to keep an expression of distaste on his face, but even that fell away as he remembered, his eyes growing distant. “A feeling of utter love and acceptance. Of perfect trust and joy. It...brought me to mind of being a babe in my mother’s arms,” he whispered softly, “and I have not really thought of her in the past decade and a half.”

“I...I felt the same,” managed Edelgard. She stared out past the window. “It was like all my siblings were still alive, and my Father was ruling the Empire in peace, with my Mother by his side as an Empress in her own right. I was not an heir to the throne, but just El, able to live my life however I pleased. It felt so real...and then it was cruelly taken away from me, like a cheap vision or a trick,” she whispered.

Both of them were silent for long minutes, both still in private contemplation, then Edelgard lifted her face from the floor. “How is Professor Manuela?”

It was a surprise to hear Hubert chuckle richly. “Still screaming at Lord Seteth for giving her hair green highlights. I heard that Professor Hanneman and Lady Beatrix had to interpose themselves between the two. For all intents and purposes, she is still our Professor by her behavior.”

“But that blood will always carry a tie of loyalty,” Edelgard scowled. “I remain ambivalent. I am pleased with her survival, but we will have to be more careful in our indulgences with her from now on. However...I did learn Professor Jeralt might be...slightly sympathetic to us.”

“Oh?” Hubert was intrigued.

“Yes. He is also a recipient of Nabatean blood, from Rhea herself. But he agreed with me that it was not natural. And his strength is inconceivable. He held me back from Manuela effortlessly.” Edelgard paused, then said, “Hubert...we have proceeded on the assumption that we would have to eradicate every trace of the Faith of Seiros. But what if we didn’t have to? What if…”

“...we could only eliminate Rhea herself?” smiled Hubert from the ground. He shrugged. “Show me a weapon or a poison that can kill an immortal dragon in a single blow, my Lady, and it will be done.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come!


	30. Trade Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never left you  
> You left me after I saw  
> What you had become.
> 
> \--
> 
> Byleth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop! 5 weeks late. Don't worry, next chapter in the works! Finally got some buffer space!
> 
> Don't come to the Southern US for the foreseeable future. Like, maybe if there's a vaccine. The cray is thick and hot.
> 
> CN/TW: Threatened Suicide, prisoner torture

Ch. 30

  
  


Trade Negotiations

* * *

  
  


Midnight finally fell upon Garreg Mach Monastery, after the events of a terrible day.

The pews were removed and stacked aside, for the Cathedral of the Goddess’ Rebirth itself was needed to be filled with the endless cots of the wounded and homeless. Garreg Mach Town was almost a total ruin, with reports of a plague of monsters descending upon the city in the late afternoon, and roars and shrieks still came from the ruins near the poor quarter and the shantytown known as the Abyss. The refugees demanding shelter, food, and mercy from the monastery proper came in an endless stream, and Seteth quickly set up the remaining able bodied Knights to enforce discipline and order as rations were handed out and water was distributed from the river. Fortunately, the monastery was already well stocked in anticipation of the influx of pilgrims for the upcoming Rite of Rebirth, and none who asked were forced to go hungry. A triage for the wounded and dying was set up with partitions and cots in the Academy halls and classrooms, and monks and nuns and even students in training moved about the injured, hoping to ease pain or bring comfort. Another full company of Knights and strong servants were ordered to move the dead, setting aside the defenders for Holy cremation (only used when burial was impractical) and stripping their heretical foes to be piled and burned to ash in hastily built midden pits.

And those were the simple tasks, handled by the Bishops and Abbesses and the Knights, led by Holy Knight Catherine and Knight Shamir.

More disturbing were the reports of Lonato’s fantastical weapon, that had destroyed the gates of Garreg Mach and allowed the nobleman to slaughter nearly at will. How almost every prisoner in the Central Church’s dungeons was killed, sometime during the attack. The confusion of how Lonato’s Army evaded Knight-General Byleth’s large expeditionary force out on the Magdred Way. Multiple credible reports of Prince Dimitri’s battle madness, and how and if the Prince could continue here at the Academy. A confusing and contradictory tale of how multiple students were trapped in Garreg Mach town before the attack, who then warned the monastery of the attack, leading other students to defy direct orders because they wanted to help their classmates. A demand for full pardons for a group of grey cloaked rogues from the Abyss, many of them giving false or assumed names, who claimed they helped save students. An inquiry about the whereabouts of Professor Jeritza, who had been instrumental in turning the tide of battle, only to begin indiscriminately attacking civilians in town. The mystery of how all of these monsters attacked at the same time as Lonato, leading to whispers of dark magic and occult practices.

Most worrisome and confusing were the multiple, credible eyewitnesses saying that Knight-General Byleth was capable of miracles of healing.

As the debate between the secretive Cardinals, the most fanatical and ardent supporters of the Church of Seiros raged on the second floor of Garreg Mach Monastery, Lord Seteth was busy down the hall in his office with an equally pressing matter.

“GREEN, Seteth? Not only did you violate my bodily autonomy, but you turned my hair GREEN?!”

Lord Seteth, High Abbot of Garreg Mach, Headmaster of the Officer’s Academy, Lord Protector of the Church of Seiros, High Clerist of the Knights of Seiros, Nabatean, concerned father, busy man, ancient Saint in disguise, and occasional children’s book author, tiredly rubbed at the bridge of his nose from where he sat behind his desk. “I deeply apologize, Professor. But you were dying from a broken spine,” he repeated for possibly the ninth time, his heavily sagged eyes almost pleading up at her. “I could not simply stand by and watch you die.”

Professor Manuela halted from her ranting and raving. For a woman on death’s door mere hours before, she paced the floor before him with remarkable energy. Manuela had been healed by his blood and the Fortify, but then immediately had thrown herself into healing the rest of the wounded and suffering in the overcrowded infirmaries. She was still bursting with tireless energy as she tossed back her dark blonde hair, now intermixed with slight threads of verdant green.

She stood before the High Abbot, fists on her hips, her revealing white robe and green dress bloodstained from helping a multitude of patients. Her beautiful face was locked into a grimace as she glared at the hooded green eyes of her superior. Then she dramatically collapsed into a chair opposite his desk, blowing her highlighted hair from her face with the force of her sigh before brushing the split ends behind her ears. Her question, repeated for the ninth time, came right back at him. “And how, pray exactly, does your blood have healing properties greater than the strongest elixir? No more games or evasiveness, Seteth! You promised me an explanation, so let’s hear it!”

“And I was trying to warn you, Professor, that any further explanations would have to be approved by Lady Rhea herself. While you are a capable Professor and diligent healer, secrets of such magnitude cannot be given freely. When she emerges from her meeting with the Cardinals, I will tell her what has occurred, including your knowledge of Flayn and myself.”

Manuela fixed Seteth with a gimlet eye. “You and Flayn aren’t human, are you?”

Seteth stayed absolutely still.

Manuela sighed and shook her head at the High Abbot, as if he was a truant pupil. “Oh dear Seteth. I do respect your privacy, but now that I’ve been roped into this little family drama of yours--without my input, and entirely by accident, to repeat the point--I do believe honesty is a better policy than any more furtive secrets. You want to know if you can trust me? Well the feeling’s mutual, buster!” she ended with an angry outburst.

Seteth looked pained at her response, and leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “Manuela,” he said flatly, and she perked up a bit, pleasantly surprised. “If it were up to myself, I would tell you all, here and now. But I am the Archbishop’s subordinate, and I must seek her approval to bring you into the circle of trust.”

“And what if she says I can’t be trusted? What then?” growled Manuela, folding her arms across her chest.

Shaking his head, Seteth said, “It will not come to that. You have proven your dedication to protecting Flayn. I swear I will do all I can to intervene on your behalf.”

Tilting her head, the Black Eagle Professor considered the man opposite her. Scrutinizing his features once more, she said slowly, “Flayn isn’t your sister. She’s your daughter.”

Seteth coughed and looked away, frowning.

Manuela smiled slowly, languidly, realizing Seteth was caught like a mouse in a trap. “It’s so obvious in hindsight. The dynamic between the two of you...well, she _is_ a very sweet girl, and extremely talented in healing, although she hides her full talent at Faith very well.” Her energy dropped as well as she noted Seteth’s clenched jaw behind his beard and the faint sweat on his lip. Her behavior was making the poor concerned thing so nervous. She adopted a more clinical tone, her musical voice shifting notes easily. “But now since you’ve given me the basic non-denial, I’ll just have to try and be satisfied with that. I do hope you can put some faith in me, Seteth. It’s not as if I’m ungrateful for saving my life, but it’s the...not knowing what that entirely means that is getting to me. I hope you understand.” 

The High Abbot of Garreg Mach stood somewhat stiffly. “I do. But right before the battle…” he hesitated, then continued. “Your passionate defense of Flayn’s safety made a deep impression upon me. And as well as your recent efforts to repair and renew your reputation. You have reminded me of something, something that I have not felt in...years,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Her eyes widened, a slow flush spread across her cheeks. Her smile turned coy. “Why Seteth! Please be careful, that almost sounded...romantic. I do suppose we share a certain...intimacy now.”

Her banter only brought the slightest smile in return to the man’s stern face. Ugh, he was maddening. “I suppose so,” he agreed. “Let me just tell you this before we return to our duty. You have my full permission to speak with Professor Jeralt. He has undergone a...similar experience, shall we say, to your own. He can answer many of your questions, if he deigns to do so.”

“What? Really? He got a transfusion from you as well? Then how come his hair isn’t green?”

Walking to the door of his office, Seteth paused by it. “It once was...a century ago.” He quickly left and shut the door.

Manuela brooded in the dim office on that revelation, her mind reeling. Reaching into her pocket, she brought forth a small compact mirror and examined her face. Maybe a hint of green wasn’t so bad, after all. “A century, eh?” Then she sighed. “Maybe that will give me enough time to find true love…”

* * *

  
  


Jeralt the Blade-Breaker sat in his creaking office chair, pulled up next to the sleeping pallet he had hastily arranged for his daughter. He was still dressed in the blasted and scorched armor he had been wearing earlier today. The infirmaries were too crowded, and he wanted for both of them to have privacy after the momentous events of the battle. Her armor was piled in the corner, wet and messy, including her empty scabbard...he would have to have another talk with her, about losing your weapon on the battlefield...there was no excuse for that. Then he shook himself from his drifting thoughts to study his child once more. Byleth’s face was relaxed in sleep, looking so small and innocent that Jeralt’s mind had trouble accepting she was a capable warrior and officer, a true terror in the field. And the resemblance to Glyasa in the dim candlelight of the sconces was so strong that he had to blink repeatedly to see his daughter there, with her blue hair, not green.

He had been afraid of this.

Rhea had done something to his daughter. Something without his knowledge, without his consent. Maybe Glaysa had known something about it, but she was oh-so-conveniently dead in childbirth, according to Rhea, her body already buried by the time he had returned. The grieving Archbishop had then presented to him his daughter. A child with no heartbeat, who had never truly laughed or cried in her entire life until recently. A silent baby, who did not fuss for goat’s milk, or react in discomfort to a cold and dirty swaddling cloth. A tiny being that only watched and observed, her cornflower blue eyes eventually becoming the deep oceanic pools that stared fixedly from a blank face. Alone with this strange child, alienated from Rhea and his own religious vows, and nursing a boundless grief of a lonely man widowed far too soon, he had done the only thing he could think of.

He fled with his child, under the darkness of night, with the screams and flames behind him.

Beatrix had been a young wisewoman living on the fringes in the forests nearby Garreg Mach in those days. She had helped him claw his way back from madness and despair, telling him in no uncertain terms he was responsible for another life now, no matter how he felt about himself and his own grief. And eventually, it had worked. He had raised his daughter with the impulsive healer, both of them travelling far and working odd jobs with a small somber toddler in tow, riding in the saddle with them as they kept on the move from town to town. His relationship with Trips was...complex, but because of their mutual care for Byleth, both of them had settled into comfortable, familiar roles that needed no more talk or explanations. It was because of Trips that Byleth learned her words and letters, coaxing the frightening depth and unexpected intelligence out of his kid.

In the midst of gathering like-minded, decent souls who wanted to protect people, not kill them, they had traveled all across Fódlan, throughout the Alliance and Empire, eventually settling in Remire after they had felt enough years had passed for Rhea to stop looking. Byleth was almost six by then, quickly becoming strong enough to handle a small sword. He had trained her with Trips and Zarad, making certain she could defend herself in this crazy world, to be as strong and as capable as she could possibly be, even teaching her how to mimic emotions to better protect herself and build something of a normal life as a mercenary’s daughter.

But they had never taught her magic.

Years before, Trips had attempted it, but any attempt to educate Byleth in Black or White anima was only met with frustration by both pupil and teacher. Byleth hid it all beneath her usual stoicism, but it was one of the few skills she hadn’t picked up quickly. While Byleth was off training with the rest of the company one late afternoon, the doctor-turned mercenary healer laughed it off with Jeralt and Zarad over drinks in a tavern, saying “Well I know she’s your kid, Captain. She can’t cast a spell to save her life. Not even a cantrip, and even Zarad can manage those! I’ll just tell her the basics about identifying magical spells in battle.”

Jeralt allowed himself a brief moment of recrimination. This was all his fault.

He had known being back here, in the seat of Rhea’s power, would do something to Byleth. Known Rhea’s obsession was still in full force. It had disgusted him then, and it disgusted him now. Byleth was a person, not an object, and should be given the option to say something in her defense in the midst of all this crazy religious crap. He knew returning to Garreg Mach would be dangerous for them, but he had little idea of how dangerous until now. If the Archbishop had been obsessive before with his daughter, by now she would be positively manic.

The fucking Crest of Flames. Byleth, naively and innocently informing her father and stepmother of talking to the Goddess. Dreaming of ancient battles, high stone thrones, and glowing bone swords. Rhea, perhaps the most powerful individual on the planet, taking an unhealthy interest in his only daughter.

Reluctantly, Jeralt considered the other side of the coin. Hours ago, Lord Lonato had nearly ended the career of the Blade Breaker and snuffed out the Hresvelg lineage in a single, magical strike. Gaspard couldn’t have acquired something that powerful on his own. No, that’s why he attacked now, despite putting his stepson and heir at risk. He must’ve been ordered to do so. And Shamir had mentioned a magical, forest enveloping fog on the Magdred Way, dense enough to halt the advance of the Knights of Seiros. He wondered if Alois and Zarad were getting along and if they had managed to find their way out of that.

Something was brewing, and he needed help to sniff it out. The students--hell, the entire monastery--was already whispering about his daughter, the “Saint Reborn.” But someone in Fódlan was masterminding the attacks on the Church. On Rhea. Unless he got to the bottom of this secret war being conducted behind the scenes, every one of them was in great danger. And now they were associated with the Church again, there would be extra bright targets painted on their backs, all in the blood red Symbol of Seiros.

 _War’s coming. I can feel it in my bones. Governments collapsing, the nobility running mad, the Church attacking itself, bandits and outlaws everywhere. And we can’t run anymore..._ Jeralt mused on the fateful bandit attack that had brought him and Byleth back to Garreg Mach. _A strange mage in a mask...wielding Dark magic..._

A low knock on his door roused him from his musing. “Captain Teach?” came Claude’s whisper. 

Sighing, Jeralt rose and allowed the Duke’s heir to slip inside his office. “Wanting to sneak out past curfew to visit your old Professor? I don’t think I’ll ever understand your brain, Golden Boy,” he drawled, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Claude grinned back cheekily, dressed in dark black garb that Jeralt eyed in professional appreciation. “Well, there are a lot of agitated Knights and healers down there, but fortunately for me, I have a talent for sneaking around.” His green eyes flickered down to Byleth as he removed his hood. “How is she?”

“Sleeping comfortably,” nodded Jeralt, motioning Claude into a chair as he sat down. “Beatrix looked at her and said she was just exhausted from magical exertion.”

Claude wasted no time. “You don’t really think she’s a Saint, do you?”

He could only snort at that. “At this point, I think fish can fly. I’ve had some crazy days, but this one’s in the top five, at least.”

Claude nodded. “I’m still trying to absorb it all, myself. If it makes you feel any better, I nearly died today too? I can’t say I recommend the experience, though. I think that’s my fifth time.”

“If you need help processing, my door’s always open.”

“I knew it would be,” smiled Claude. Then he bowed his head. “I hate to break the manly code of facades in front of my epically scarred Professor, but I have to admit I’m scared. A magic weapon blew open the gate of Garreg Mach like me ripping a piece of paper. What can we do against something like that?”

Jeralt grunted. “Expect something like it in the future, I guess. I hate to break it to you Claude, but there’s no real certainty or wisdom that comes with age or status. We’re all making it up as we go along, same as you.”

“Well that’s reassuring,” said the young man sourly. “So much for my vulnerable side.”

“You should’ve known it would be wasted on me. How’s the rest of the class?”

The Golden Deer House leader sighed. “Bearing up much better than I would have ever hoped. Lysithea’s staying with Leonie; despite her brave front, I think she was a little shaken up. Fortunately nothing really bad happened, so I heard, but maybe Beatrix or Manuela can talk to her again.”

“She’s tough as nails. If she needs help she’ll ask.”

“Seteth’s not really gonna expel Lorenz and the rest, is he? I sort of...as embarrassing it is to say...owe him one,” said Claude worriedly.

“I think we’re going to make it a good teaching moment. Cadets should still be allowed to be cadets; making an emotional mistake before your first real battle is understandable. Just know that in a real army, they’d be held as oathbreakers and mutineers.”

Eyeing his Professor, Claude went on relentlessly. “You heard about what happened with Dimitri?” Jeralt sighed and nodded. “Marianne still won’t leave his side and I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. Ignatz told me the whole story. Good thing, too, since I would’ve only gotten snarls and growls from Felix and Dedue, and maybe a squeak from Bernadetta.”

“Marianne’s not alone with him is she?” said the Captain, sitting up straight in his chair.

“Oh no, Hilda’s staying with her. She’s not happy about it, but I’m a little glad, since I think she’s the only Deer who can approach Dimitri in strength. They’ve got two cots next to the um…’room’ they’re currently keeping the Prince. I could probably rope Raphael into helping as well. He’s still down there helping clear the rubble and bodies I think.”

“Between them and Dedue...and maybe a dozen fully armed Knights...that might be enough,” said Jeralt, frowning as he considered. An idea struck him. “Do you have any...let’s just say, herbal remedies for the Prince?”

Claude made an indelicate sound. “I do, but I suggest keeping that option limited. They might all have the side effect of making his mental state worse. I’d prefer to subdue him with words, not drugs or blows. I’m trying to recruit Princess Edelgard to that effect. She’s the reason he lost it. He thought she was dead when Lonato blasted the two of you. I sent her a note.”

“I’d heard they had some sort of relationship in the past. Something about being long lost friends--?”

“More like brother and sister. They were raised together from 1171 to 1174. It had to do with Edelgard’s mother. I’ll tell you the whole story later,” Claude said, waving a hand dismissively. Then a crease appeared in his smooth forehead. “More importantly, what’s going to happen to us? As in, the students? Pretty sure the Monastery and Academy getting attacked is going to put a damper on the school year, not to mention the Town being devastated.”

Jeralt could imagine the reactions of Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius and Duke Holst Goneril when they heard the news. The Imperial Ministry and the Emperor and his Lord Regent would have issues with the Central Church as well. Not to mention others, like Margrave Edmund or Margrave Gautier. But uprooting this nest of vipers behind the incident would take a more skillful hand than his own. They would need to divvy things up between the two of them to make this work.

“I need all the Deer to write home to their parents immediately,” the ex-Knight ordered. “Tell them to spare no detail. Whoever did this attack just succeeded beyond their wildest expectations. The obvious and responsible thing to do would be to put the Officer’s Academy semester on hold until Garreg Mach could be determined to be safe again.”

Claude was grinning in realization. “Ah, so we do the irresponsible thing. We continue as if nothing has happened, and help rebuild things here.”

“Right. I think I can get Rhea to lean in that direction, but we’ll have to reassure the other nobles that the Central Church can handle it. We’ll let the story spread far and wide that this was just Lonato finding a magic weapon, raising a rebellion in the name of the Western Church, and attempting to attack the Archbishop with it.”

A nod in return. “But the real story--about the people who are instigating these events--we keep to ourselves.”

“Right again, Golden Boy. From here on out, we’ll have to be careful who we share that with.” Jeralt’s brown eyes meet Claude’s green ones. “You asked to be tied to the hip, well then, this is it kid. If you have any objections, spit them out.”

“Hmmm,” Claude paused thoughtfully. “I mean, I know something’s up. But who? Or what? Or why? I mean, the Princess, Prince and I were attacked several months ago, everyone just acted like ‘oh some weird mage hired all those bandits!’” The boy shook his head. “I know enough about mages...good ones...to know they have no need to ever resort to banditry. So obviously a targeted attack, but against who? But then another one also gives a rebel Kingdom noble something as powerful as a Relic? That’s not something you can just pick up in the market, I’m thinking.”

Nodding in respect, Jeralt said, “You’ve made a good start, kid. So let me fill you in with my own thoughts, and what I’ve heard from Rhea and Seteth and Catherine. Something big is coming down, but none of us know who or what it is. But consider the facts. The Insurrection. The Tragedy. And your own family tragedy. If you had never been named your grandfather’s Heir, what would have happened to the Alliance?”

“It would have been total chaos,” responded Claude glumly to the rhetorical question. “Count Gloucester probably would have taken over after my uncle’s death, maybe getting enough support to force my Lord Grandfather to step down as soon as he wheezed a cough. To give him credit, Lord Holst wouldn’t take that lying down, but Count Ordelia and Margrave Edmund would sit on the sidelines to see how it shook out. Lady Judith...dunno what she would do in that situation, but her territory borders Gloucester’s. She would probably be forced to wait and see as well.”

“So something not too dissimilar to what the Kingdom is going through, right now,” agreed Jeralt. He hesitated a moment, then said, “I know you’re not a believer, Claude. I’m not really either, I guess...but this place, Garreg Mach, it means something to me. Call it an old man’s sentiment. I’d rather not see it destroyed.”

The Alliance noble nodded back. “I can live with that, Captain Teach. In fact, that aligns perfectly with my hopes and dreams. So what’s your take on things?”

“I think whatever this cabal is after is thinking big. So big we can’t see it.” The old man spread his hands out. “It’s Fódlan. It’s the whole damned continent.”

Claude was silent for a long minute.

After a while, Jeralt sighed and said, “Fine, it’s okay if you don’t believe me…”

“Hang on, Teach, just thinking,” replied Claude automatically, his eyes distant and a frown on his face. “That...makes sense,” he eventually said slowly. “That makes so much sense it’s scary. They went after the Empire first, then the Kingdom, then they tried it with the Alliance, but they didn’t know about me because I wasn’t in the Alliance yet. And now they’re going after…”

“...Rhea,” supplied Jeralt, pleased with his student. “I know it’s a blow to your ego, Claude, but some other people may be assassination targets in this world.”

“A world without Rhea…” mused Claude. Jeralt cleared his throat and Claude came to attention. “...would be a bad thing, totally! Obviously. Okay, so she’s a target as well. I guess that explains the overreaction of the Knight’s Expeditionary Force to try and crush Lonato in the bud, as well as sending Catherine to ensure it. And it also explains Byleth.”

“Explains my daughter how?” rumbled Jeralt with a frown.

“It’s clear as day, Teach. Rhea likely knew Byleth could do Saint-magic, so she was putting her into a situation where it would have to come out. And if the rumours are true...it did.”

“That’s…” Jeralt blinked, then allowed, “...smart.”

Claude preened himself at the praise, then laughed as he dodged a half-hearted cuff from his Professor. But it quickly faded, and he said, “Okay, I think we’ve got a decent working hypothesis. But what do we do about it now?”

“Claude…” Jeralt murmured quietly, forcing the teen to lean forward to hear. “I can handle Rhea and Byleth, like no other person can, aside from maybe Seteth.”

Claude’s brows rose. “That’s interesting. I thought he was absolutely loyal.”

“He is, but he’s worried, the same as us. The Monastery is compromised beyond doubt now. The prisoners being killed in the dungeons proved that. But Rhea’s…” Jeralt grimaced as if he had eaten something foul, then continued, “...pure obsession with my daughter is blinding her to everything below the surface. The Cardinals don’t have enough autonomy to gainsay her authority to start a real investigation. And besides, I’m not sure how far it would go without the full cooperation of at least one nation of Fódlan.”

“And what about Byleth herself?” replied Claude, whispering now as well. “How will she feel about all of this?”

Jeralt tiredly rubbed his eyes. “You’re asking my girl, who just recently discovered how to feel, about how she feels about the most momentous political intrigue on the continent?”

When he looked up again, Claude was frowning at him. “Don’t underestimate your daughter, Captain Teach. Rhea may be obsessed, but she might not be necessarily wrong. Your daughter is very special, and she’s been given a great deal of authority in the Church. If anyone can hunt down these weirdo magic users, it’s probably her. She might see the situation more clearly than we do.”

“When she wakes up, I’ll let her know of your glowing opinion,” smirked Jeralt, glancing at his daughter’s slow breathing. Claude’s suggestion had merit; but what if that meant he was giving up his daughter completely to Rhea? Would he be playing directly into her hands, a puppet Knight still dancing to her tune?

His student didn’t rise to the bait, the worry back in his eyes. “So are we really tied to the hip, Captain Teach? I don’t need to know everything, but I _am_ sort of good at survival. I think that’s going to be a key skill in the upcoming days,” asked Claude.

“This fellow survivor agrees. But we can’t do much from these positions, here at the Monastery. We need outside help.”

The worry vanished as Claude’s jade eyes started to gleam with excitement. “What kind of outside help do you need, Teach? I have managed to build _some_ connections in the Alliance, not to mention elsewhere.”

Jeralt’s smirk returned. “Who in the Alliance has the best spy network?”

* * *

“BEASTS! You filthy animals CANNOT stop us! You are nothing more than ignorant, defiled savages who have drunk deep from the corrupt teat of your so-called ‘Goddess’...”

WIth even his holy patience tested past the breaking point, Bishop Aelfric’s hand raised up with a slight green glow, and the spell Silence descended on their ghostly white prisoner once more, helplessly bound to the main pole of the command tent. The pale man snapped and raved and struggled helplessly in pure quiet against the thick ropes around his hands and feet, despite his poorly bandaged thigh.

“Aw, you stopped it just while it was getting good!” smiled Zarad, hugely enjoying the scene of Aelfric attempting an interrogation.

“Now, now, Corporal Zarad, let’s take a quiet moment here to think. While I too would enjoy beating the information we need out from this pastey patsy, Commander Byleth left the Cardinal here to orderly manage our forces. The game is clearly afoot, and the Knights will loyally follow any move he makes, based upon what we know about these Black Bishops!” exclaimed Knight-Captain Alois from his cot, bandaged and wounded from the recent skirmish yet still able to pun.

The three men and the prisoner were alone in the command tent, and other Knights and mercenaries rushed about, breaking camp and preparing to march. After most of a week, the fog had finally cleared from the Magdred Way and visibility was returning, although it was still hours before dawn.

The battle with the strange warriors had been brutal yet never in doubt. Their armor and weapons were exceptional and for some unfortunate Knights of Seiros, quite deadly. Yet the silver swords and heavy axes and lances of the Knights, along with Aelfric’s well-placed Auras, had been more than enough to subdue the small escort force. When realizing they were overwhelmed, the strange warriors opted for suicide on their glowing blades, or had fought so ferociously that they were forced to be killed. The mage that Zarad had hamstrung was the only survivor.

After examining the corpses, Bishop Aelfric ordered them all immediately preserved and embalmed as much as possible by the quartermasters and healers. The strange armor and weapons, along with all of their clothing, was taken as well and stored in several quickly emptied wagons, and a full company of Knights of Seiros were ordered to guard it with their lives. While glad to celebrate the victory and heal some wounds, Bishop Aelfric quickly became grim and quiet, his earnest face now lined with worry.

“Knight-Captain,” he said softly, and Alois attempted to sit up straighter in his cot. “Your recommendation?”

“Why, we must hurry back to the monastery at all speed! No haste, no waste! Who knows what Lonato has done to Garreg Mach! I am sure that the Captain and the Commander will rush to the rescue, but the Cardinals and Lady Rhea will find this prisoner _fast-_ cinating, I’m sure!”

Nodding, Aelfric glanced at the lounging form of Zarad. “And you, Corporal?”

“There’s still rebels in Lonato’s territory, and at Castle Gaspard. The Fairy High Priestess wanted them taken out,” said Zarad, shrugging. “So the job’s not finished. They will await news from the attack before they make their own moves. If we move fast to the west, we can encircle the rest of the rebels and crush them at the root. Otherwise, Castle Gaspard and its church will become a beacon of rebellion against your religion.”

Aelfric considered, but then the mental struggle of the Silence spell against the strange prisoner claimed his attention, as the man struggled to cast his own Dark anima through the spell. Ah, well. Sometimes drastic times called for drastic measures. “Zarad, please kick the prisoner in his wound, to gently remind him to behave,” sighed Aelfric, softly rubbing his temples with his headache building.

The Almyran renegade grinned. “Ah, it is good to know even a highly ranked Goddess-worshiper has teeth. Observe my own brand of magic.” Stepping forward past Aelfric’s slight form, ignoring the pale glare of the bound form below him, he drove a bulky hard foot into the prisoner’s bandage on his leg, causing the man’s mouth to gape wide in agony and his veins to bulge on his neck. Zarad followed this by bending low and punching him in the face, which was also disconcertedly done in complete silence. The pale mage in black sagged against his bonds, head bowed.

The Seiros Cardinal frowned at the punch. “I pray you didn’t kill him or addle his wits,” he rebuked.

“I leave magic to you; please leave punching to me,” said Zarad with mock cheerfulness.

Shaking his head, but grateful he had to no longer maintain his Silence spell at full effect, Aelfric beckoned the mercenary to join him at the map table, illuminated by a single oil lamp. “I think a compromise is in order. Your words concerning the rebellion are true, yet since capturing this man and the remains and equipment of his comrades, it has become of secondary importance. Archbishop Rhea must be aware of these strange men at once, capable of feats of magic that are well beyond us. Can you imagine such a fog covering cities, towns, castles? While they could see through it completely?”

“Perhaps that’s why they wear those goggles!” suggested Alois brightly from his corner.

“A surprisingly astute observation, Knight-Captain,” murmured Aelfric, looking at the map. Zarad snickered at Alois’ pleased expression. The Cardinal looked up at Zarad. “How skilled is your mercenary company at reconnaissance and information gathering?”

Zarad shrugged but smiled. “Decent enough. In the field, I doubt many could best me. In a town or a castle, there is the small problem of me being so obviously heathen.”

“How I wish Yuri were here…” whispered Aelfric to himself. Zarad waited while he deliberated, and Aelfric was pleased at the foreigner’s discipline. The noises and calls of camp being broken down continued outside the tent, against a slowly brightening sky.

Eventually the Cardinal spoke his orders. “I will place one additional member of the Church under your command, Corporal. Her name is Wilhelmina. I think the two of you will get along well. If your specialty is the forest, her specialty is the city. I want your company--Jeralt’s Mercenaries--to continue west and act as if you are an independent mercenary group, with you acting as its Captain. Get her close to Castle Gaspard and she will attempt to collect evidence of the conspiracy behind the rebellion.”

“I have men who can do that, Fai--um, Cardinal,” rumbled Zarad, crossing his arms. “Do you not trust us?”

“I do, but Wilhelmina will know exactly what to look for, after I brief her. There are levels of trust. Please understand,” said Aelfric with a firm nod.

Zarad sneered, clearly unhappy, but shrugged. “She’d better pull her weight with our company. The Captain only expects the best, as do I.”

“Yes, that does sound like Captain Jeralt,” smiled Aelfric. “Please gag and blindfold the prisoner. I will heal Sir Alois one final time, and the rest of us will march back to Garreg Mach. I am anxious to know if the town is still intact…”

* * *

  
  


Byleth’s eyes opened, although she was not awake.

It was the darkest hour before dawn, yet she had to hurry. There were still too many humans awake and about for it to be truly safe.

Green eyes glanced over to the form of her vessel’s father, hunched over on his desk, snoring into his folded arms. A good man. A decent man. She remembered well his frustration and grief. It deserved answers.

But first, she must speak with her daughter.

She rose from the pallet as silently as a wraith, and with the slightest whisper of anima, unlocked and opened the door in front of her. Floating past it into the hallway, she closed it in a like manner.

Questing for a moment in the darkened hallway, she found her daughter was still locked in debate with her human followers. It threatened to go on til morning. That would not do.

Becoming invisible and ethereal, Byleth’s body floated upwards, through stone and mortar and wood to the Archbishop’s bedchamber. Her borrowed feet settled on the tiled floor, and she glanced into a nearby full length mirror to consider her appearance. Just boringly dressed in a short black shift and shorts, with bare feet. Byleth’s mouth frowned at the unruly mane of blue locks. Tch, surely the mercenary girl must be taught better haircare…

Ach. Time was an issue, she reminded herself. Very well then. Byleth’s arms spread out, fingers opening wide as her mind issued the summons. _Daughter. Come._

She sensed her child’s sudden agitated consternation. Her firstborn made abrupt excuses to her human followers, and dismissed the proceedings. Ordered all of them to their roles, reminding them of their duties. They would reconvene in the evening after they had rested and refreshed. Some of the Cardinals sensed the Archibishop’s excitement, as she fairly raced down halls and up the stairs to her bedroom.

Byleth’s body smiled.

Moments later, Archbishop Rhea burst inside her bedroom, fairly slamming the door and fumbling to lock it behind her, her tiara almost sliding off her head and her green hair loose and frenzied across her face. She hesitantly looked around the austere bedroom with wild green eyes. “Mother--?” she whispered in the dimness.

“Boo,” whispered Byleth’s voice from behind her, the vessel becoming visible once more.

Rhea fairly jumped, before scowling fiercely. “Knight Byelth! What are you--?” She stopped herself and gaped at the iridescent jade green eyes of Jeralt’s daughter, a shocking contrast to the normal deep blue pools.

Sothis smiled gently with Byleth’s mouth, still floating above the ground.

“Oh my dear Seiros. It has been too long, hasn’t it?” whispered Byleth’s voice, opening her vessel’s arms.

The simple phrases convinced her daughter beyond any doubt. “Mother!” moaned Rhea, sinking into Byleth’s strong arms, tears falling like rain.

Byelth’s strong grip flexed around her daughter, hugging her tightly. “Shhhhh. Child. You have grieved for so long. None of it was your fault. None of it.”

Rhea bawled out a loud sob, falling to her knees, dragging the Knight’s body down with her. “Noo...I--I failed you, Mother. I failed all of them. They trusted me to keep them safe! You trusted me, in your stead, while you Slept! But...but…” sobbed Rhea, an animalistic retching sound coming from her throat.

Byleth’s hands removed themselves after a few moments, untangling the elaborate tiara from Rhea’s green hair, brushing away the tangles and frayed ends, even as Rhea cried and wept into Byleth’s bosom. The ancient tiara was tossed aside carelessly on the floor with a metallic rattle, and soon Byleth’s hands moved to Rhea’s face, tilting her chin upwards.

Byleth’s mouth smiled. “I absolve you, my daughter, for the Red Canyon. You will always have my blessing. And my love. I have always been with you.”

Rhea only wept more piteously at this reply, but this time in gratitude. The soul in Byleth’s body gave her a few more moments, but then said sternly, “Seiros. Attend. I do not have infinite time to spend with you.”

The Archbishop composed herself to the best of her ability, wiping snot from her nose on ornamental robes and clearing her eyes. She scanned Byleth’s mortal frame through watery eyes. “So...y-you are now here? Within Byleth?”

A nod. “I am, daughter. You have chosen well, this time. I have even gifted her my divine power.”

Seiros’ tear-stained face betrayed shock. “To transform?”

Byleth’s head shook. “No, she cannot endure that and live. But she has the fortitude to bear the bursts of Divine Pulse. Her soul--and her caring--is strong enough to withstand it.”

“I knew it. I _knew_ she was the one. I _knew_ it.” Rhea smiled in joy. She hugged Byleth’s body to her again, tightly, familiarly. “And now you have returned, Mother. You can heal this land once more.”

“No. I cannot.”

The flat refusal left Rhea confused. “But Mother...you’re here now...we can cleanse this land, purify it...sweep everything aside, as we once did before…”

Byleth’s mouth sighed. “And that was wrong, my child. We fought together against the hubris and folly of men, when it became too great. We felt we had no choice, seeing their power as a threat to our own. Yet It has only led to greater death and destruction, and to centuries of stagnation.”

“I...I...Mother, I confess I do not understand…the desecration of Ailiel after they attempted their attack...Zanado…”

“Were crimes, daughter, crimes that have inflicted countless years of needless suffering upon all. Our sacred duty is to minimize such horror, not compound it. And what have you done instead? Supported and propped up a system where the bodies of your brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, are used as weapons?”

Her face twisting at the mild chastisement, Rhea sobbed again, bowing her head in despair, despite Byleth’s hands trying to hold her up. “Failure...such a failure...I’ve become such a disappointment in your eyes, Mother…”

“ _Never._ ”

Rhea lifted her eyes up in wild hope. Desperate for affirmation and love, so long denied.

Byleth’s hand cupped her chin, forcing her gaze steady. “You are my precious one. My oldest child. You have tried your very best, and have succeeded in many ways, yet...your mind has become clouded. By grief. By pain. By rejection. You have felt so alone for so long. Do you deny it?”

Tears welled up again in Rhea’s eyes, but she bravely tried to meet the bright green eyes of Byleth. “No...Mother. I do not,” she gasped reluctantly. “I...I had no one, after Wilheim died. It took Seteth a thousand years to forgive me for Aine’s death and Cethleann’s slumber. Indech wanted nothing more to do with the humans, and Macuil and I had a...a falling out.”

The hands of the avatar petted her child’s hair once more. “Thank you for being honest, Seiros. We may speak again. I will only give you this advice. Seek out your other brothers. They are lonely and hurting as well. They must regain their humanity. They are needed, for what is to come.” Byleth’s hands dropped away from Rhea.

The Archbishop of Fódlan desperately grabbed at Byleth’s scarred hand, her face wretched and pleading. “Mother! Don’t go...please don’t go yet…”

Byelth’s mouth smiled, a small sad smile. Byleth’s head bent low and kissed her daughter’s fingers. Then she rose.

“Silly Seiros. I never left you. _Never._ You just never listened to me, inside of you. Inside here,” Byleth’s mouth said, as her hand pressed hard against Rhea’s left breast. Then Byleth's green eyes became stern. “And please do not pester this dear vessel after it wakes up! I can see you now, cajoling and begging and badgering the poor child until you get what you want! Well, have you ever considered what SHE might want? Of course not! It’s time to grow up and put on your big girl panties, my dear Seiros. It’s time to stop being selfish and hurt! You have a chance to begin anew, but will you use it to change and grow, or only stagnate further and nurse your past griefs?” Byleth’s voice laughed in a light gay twinkle, as she twirled in the air in front of her daughter. “I will visit you again. But remembered my advice! You have waited to hear my voice for more than a thousand years! But when did you stop to _listen_? Now, it’s back to bed for my dear, adorable vessel! Please harken, Seiros!” With another twirl, Byleth’s body became insubstantial and floated down through the floor of the Archbishop’s bedchamber.

Rhea’s hands slapped futilely against the cold stone floor of her bedchamber, where the last afterimage of Byleth’s forest green eyes had slipped through the tiles. For long minutes, she gasped and quivered in release, weeping harsh gasping sobs between unadulterated joy and black despair, hugging her arms so tightly than soon blood, dark red with flecks of green, dripped and soaked into her robes of state.

Her Mother loved her. She had Returned. But even the mildest words of rebuke from a Goddess can sear the soul, laying open scarred wounds that now burned bright and fresh. Sothis loved her daughter, as an indulgent parent might be constantly amused and forgiving to a stumbling child who could never match their stride. Rhea’s skin felt so hot as to be aflame, as she knew beyond doubt her Mother disapproved of her sinful actions, the unhappy compromises at the end of the War of Ancients that had etched much of the history of the continent into immutable stone law. The endless and constant forbidden experiments attempting Her Resurrection, from the Chalice to the Crest Stone of Flames. Rhea had thought she had prayed and begged for a revelation after the war, and in the end, thought she had heard Her Mother’s voice, and experienced a revelation to expand the cult of Seiros into an actual Church. A Church that would pray along with her for the Return of The Holy Mother.

But perhaps that had only been the exhausted Seiros’ own pride and vanity, smugly content with the defeat of Nemesis and the Elites, the unworthy Child of the Goddess who had an Emperor for a lover and thousands of deluded humans who had falsely worshipped her, instead of Sothis.

Her Mother saw every heart, and was the arbiter of every soul. With Her Return, and in Her own Eyes, she saw the actions and thoughts of Seiros were found wanting, despite the kind words of love. The Archbishop felt the shame of ages sweep over her.

And Rhea did not know what to do.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Felix opened his exhausted eyes to the brightness of dawn, only semi-aware of where, or who, he was.

A sharp twinge in his left knee brought reality back. He was in his bed, still in his blood drenched, ripped clothing of yesterday, although he could see the bare minimum of armor he had used was carelessly strewn across his writing desk. His swords and sword belt were on the seat of the chair, with his boots by the legs. Assured his gear was intact, Felix slowly and methodically moved his stiff limbs, flexing slowly and carefully moving his previously injured knee. Probing it with his fingers, he noted only the bare minimum of healing had been performed, and that it was still weak and swollen. He was forced to acknowledge this made sense; the healers of Garreg Mach undoubtedly had more devastating, life-threatening injuries to attend to last night than a young nobleman’s injured extremity.

Biting his lip, Felix forced himself to ignore the pain and hot burning stretched and swollen skin, bending his knees and swinging his feet off the bed.

His bare toes touched warm skin.

“The FUCK!?” he screamed, scrambling up back onto the bed in raw panic, his wounded knee screaming along with him.

Petra’s tan tattooed face rose up from where she had been curled up next to his bed. “Good morning, Felix,” she said, yawning and sitting up. Her right arm was in a sling with a bandaged splint, with her main braid taken down. She examined Felix more closely. “Are you having the moment?”

Felix managed to calm his breathing. “Why are you in my room?” he asked abrasively, still confused.

Her violet gaze turned concerned. “Do you not remember? You were having difficulty last night. Your leg was troubling you greatly, and you moved it against advice by the walking back up to Garreg Mach. You wanted to know of Dimitri’s care by the Knights. By this point, you could walk with assistance only. So,” she said slowly, as if he were a Goddess-touched child, “I assisted you.”

Vague memories stirred. That was right. He remembered being briefly healed by a Sister, and they had gotten some food, and he had been determined to return to his own room, his own domain. He had been leaning against Petra the entire time. Despite her own injury. His eyes flickered to two half eaten bowls of broth by the far bench shelf. They had eaten, and then his head hit the pillow and he knew nothing more. Petra must have just curled up on the floor with a blanket.

Guilt warred briefly with anger. Anger won out. “You didn’t have to do all that. One of my class--or even my worthless bookworm of a Professor--could have taken care of me.”

Petra lithely got to her feet, not showing a shade of stiffness. She was still in her torn and bloodied clothing as well. Shrugging with a small smile on her lips, she said, “We were forgotten in the aftermath of battle. Too many wounded, too many townsfolk begging for the mercies. Too many miracles that the Seiros Church is now thinking on.”

Felix brushed past her, moving his gear carefully to sit--slowly--in the chair. He impatiently tugged on his right boot, trying to casually hitch the laces. “That still doesn’t explain why you curled up on my rug in my room. I don’t need a nursemaid.”

He felt more than saw her tilting her head. “You will not need assistance back down the stairs?”

Grunting sourly at that, Felix grabbed his left boot and attempted to shove his foot into it. His injury betrayed him, however, and he hated the involuntary intake of breath that immediately alerted Petra.

“See? You need assistance now,” she said firmly, moving over to the chair to kneel and pick up his boot.

He tried to snatch it from her, and they briefly tugged at the leather. “Give me that! I don’t need your help!”

“Yes you do! Why do you do denial of the obvious--? You are being so--” she stopped and let go of the boot suddenly, muttering words in Brigidish.

“You’re the one not listening to me! I can do things on my own,” he muttered, savagely grimacing as he tried to force his foot back into the boot, sweating past the pain. “Stop being so annoying,” he added. “I don’t need a mother.”

He thought that was mild, for him, but Petra’s jaw dropped. “I would never be…” she trailed off, and then rocked back to her feet, her violet eyes uncertain. “Why do you say such untruths? Are you--not liking my company?”

This time guilt won. Felix stopped trying to force himself into his footwear, his knee aching interminably now, throbbing in time to his rapid pulse. It was like kicking a dog. No, it was much worse than kicking a dog. It was kicking his best opponent, the person who had saved his life multiple times yesterday, the person he had kissed...

He couldn’t look at the hurt and vulnerability on her face for more than an instant. It was so pure, so honest, and didn’t belong to such a strong person. “It’s not that,” he ground out defensively, looking away and clenching his teeth. “Just...ask my permission next time.”

Petra didn’t say anything for a long moment, and Felix suffered the scrutiny in silence. He knew he was the asshole more often than not, but Petra wasn’t a childhood friend or a classmate who had gotten used to his tics by now. Ingrid would have already been in mid-lecture and Sylvain in mid-tease, ignoring him completely and the boot already on him. Petra however didn’t know his language that well, and took his words literally more often than not. Which was fine. He was usually literal more often than not. But for Petra...in the future, he would have to watch what he said. He wasn’t any good at that, had never been any good at that. For her though...it might be worth it to learn.

He didn’t know many others in the monastery who would fearlessly take on the Boar in hand to hand combat.

A careful glance back at Petra showed her face was composed, but there was now definite steel in her eyes. “I see. You wish to be formal, for your rank? Then that case, may I put your boot on for you, Lord Fraldarius?”

He couldn’t stop his scoff even if he had tried. It turned into a grunting laugh. “Oh, Goddess, please, anything but that. I mean...you’re a Princess, so you outrank me anyway. It just feels wrong. I don’t care about that.”

Another head tilt. “Then what do you care about?”

 _You._ Studying the woodgrain of his desk, he instead carefully said, “I don’t like being weak.”

At that, she nodded in recognition and knelt down to help him once more. This time, they worked together instead of fighting. She chatted as they worked his boot up his stiff leg, saying easily, “I have understanding with that feeling. If you depend on others, that can father weakness on you. But also, it can father strength. It is according to contest, so I have heard said.”

Sighing, he patiently explained to her as he did the laces of his boot the difference between ‘foster’ and ‘father,’ and ‘contest’ and ‘context.’ Petra scrunched up her face as she listened, nodding and trying the difference between the words under her breath. Felix instead focused on hitching his sword belt and sword back to his waist, wondering what he could add to help her. “Your Fódlanese is good,” he said at last. “I don’t know any other languages, so you’re better than me at that.”

Instantly Petra grew quiet and solemn. “I was forced to learn,” she said softly.

He grimaced at himself. He shouldn’t have brought her hostage status in the Empire up. Oh well. _Dust yourself off, and learn. Keep trying._ “To become stronger,” he said to her.

She nodded back to him. “To become stronger.”

They both were silent for a moment. Slowly, he held out his hand, and Petra pulled him to his feet. He leaned against the desk as he watched Petra pull on her own laceless boots, then amazingly strap her own sword scabbard to her back one-handed, simply balancing its weight perfectly by leaning forward as her left arm secured it. She rose and Felix had to remember to blink, but then he heard her hiss in displeasure as she touched her hair.

“What?” he grunted.

She had that uncertain look in her eyes again. “Do you know of the...braiding of hair?”

That brought a rush of unwelcome and unwanted memories. “I guess,” he said noncommittally.

Her face lit up. “That is good. My hair has fallen, and I must set it before I am seen without it. I know it is imposing on you…”

“Just turn around,” he bit off. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a hair tie.

She actually snickered at it. “It is blue!” she laughed.

“So?” Was Petra a fashion-plate, like Dorothea and Hilda?

“Oh, it is just amusing. You may go ahead,” she sniggered again and turned around. He would have rolled his eyes except for the dismay as she turned to present her undone hair.

An ocean of purple greeted Felix. It went all the way to the small of her back. Sighing gustily, he pulled the mass up, trying to remember her braid style and working from memory. He worked the top tie for the ponytail, being careful of her smaller braids and securing them, and reached back to the drawer for another hair tie. “Why do you need your hair braided? I saw you with your hair down,” he asked as he tried to adjust the rest of her hair into two large strands. He supposed there was a logical reason.

He swore Petra started feeling warmer beneath his hands. “Ah...it is for my culture.”

Working the large strands back and forth tightly, but not too tight, he continued. “Is it about being Brigid royalty?”

“Something...something like that. I strive to be proper, even in strange lands.”

Giving a hum of acknowledgment, Felix finished the braid, leaving a small pouf at the end, securing the rest with another blue tie. “There.”

Reaching up and feeling the braid, Petra’s face lit up once again. Felix was starting to like that expression on her face. “You did well! For..a Fódlan boy.” She graced him with a smile. “Is braiding common in Faerghus? I have seen Ingrid’s.”

Felix again struggled against his emotions. Ruthlessly, he beat them down. Petra had been nothing but kind to him about Glenn. “Not really. But...sometimes my brother wore them.”

Petra’s smile fell away in an instant. “I am sorry,” she said with a quick bow.

“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong. Forget it.”

“But I know you...do not wish to speak of him. I do not want to be disrespecting you, Felix.”

“You didn’t.” He couldn’t look her in the eye.

“That..is good. I do not wish for our hearts to be clouded.”

He suddenly realized she was close to him, inches from his face. Felix fought back an irrational surge of panic. Most of yesterday’s battle was a blur, but one thing stood out clearly. The kiss they had shared. But...was he ready? What did it mean? Would this just complicate things? Could it even last?

_Would it make me weak?_

“I guess we should be going,” he said instead of talking about any of those things.

If she was perturbed, he couldn’t tell. “Of course,” she nodded, moving to his right, but then she shifted suddenly. “Ah...although. Before we do. I must...see to my needs,” she said abruptly.

Now he was very confused. “What?”

She was growing frustrated. “Ah Felix...this is a shame for both...but may I use your chamber pot?”

Comprehension dawned. “Oh. I forgot that they only have those or privies for bottom floors. The top dormitory floor has water closets. Down the hall. You can’t miss them.”

Pure confusion from Petra, and it made her face scrunch up again as she tried to translate what he was saying. She had such an interesting profile, but he didn’t want to torment her at this moment. Instead he held out his arm and said, “Come on. I’ll take you to them.”

A few minutes later, he was leaning against the hallway wall as Petra emerged from the women’s room. “Those are a delight! So much easier and cleanlier! And you say servants clean them for you?”

He shrugged, but an amused smile was tugging his lips.

“I am jealousy!” she declared. “When I return to Brigid, I will make my own closet of water!”

“No doubt,” he agreed, leaning against the wall as they moved down the hall. “Let’s see what’s happening downstairs. I want to know where they put the Boar…”

A door to their left opened and a figure emerged. Edelgard, dressed fully in her red and black royal officer’s uniform, her white hair and purple ribbons clean and shimmering. Petra and Felix halted as the Imperial Princess regarded them as she locked her door. “Felix. And Petra. Good morning to you both.”

Petra grinned brightly and rushed forward, gripping a white glove on the royal hand. “Lady Edelgard! I am delighted beyond measurement to see you so well! I thought I had seen your death!”

“Thank you, Petra,” smiled Edelgard, accepting the familiarity. “Knight Byleth helped save me, although I’m not quite sure what to make of the rumours. Perhaps she is simply a natural talent at White Anima.” The smile fell away as she stepped back to regard her classmate. “Petra. Is this a new look for you?”

Felix blinked and coldly realized the implications of the blue ribbons in Petra’s hair. _Oh no. No, no, no. What have I done?_

Petra laughed lightly. “Felix let me borrow those. I could not do my braid myself, so he assisted me generously. He did well...for a boy,” the Brigid Princess winked back at him.

A composed Edelgard looked back and forth between the two of them. “I see,” she said carefully, the political heir’s mask back in place save for a slight narrowing of her eyes. “I hope there was no major breach in etiquette, Lord Fraldarius.”

 _Screw it, and screw you. It isn’t your business._ He said indifferently, “I couldn’t walk on my own. She helped me back to my room. I didn’t expect her to stay.”

“Battle is fatiguing!” Petra protested to both of them, unaware of the daggers being glared behind her head. “Once I had eaten I fell to sleep instantly. Also, I could not risk Felix being foolish, and attempting to climb down steps in his own.”

“How...kind of you, Petra,” said Edelgard, her posture subtly shifting. “Shall we go break our fast? After that, it looks though as if the two of you need more medical attention. I shall seek out Linhardt if he’s available.”

“Awake, you mean,” muttered Felix, but nodded to Petra and they descended the small landing before the last few rooms. At the end of the hall by the stairs, outside the last dormitory room, a tall figure was huddled miserably by the door in the shadows.

“Dorothea!” exclaimed Petra, moving him by the wall once more and rushing to her fellow Black Eagle’s side, Edelgard a spare step behind. Felix regarded the scene. Why was Dorothea sleeping outside Ingrid’s room? Did they have a lover’s spat or something? He could have easily told the songstress how difficult Ingrid could be. She was simultaneously bull and wool headed, rushing into things without thinking but also a fuzzy headed romantic. A dangerous combination. Then he remembered Ingrid’s absence at the gates. _That’s right. She had defied orders. What a waste of time and money and effort by House Galatea. And so much for Ingrid’s dream._

Then Felix considered Dimitri, and his thoughts turned even darker. _So much for a lot of dreams in Faerghus._

“Dorothea! What is the meaning of this?” demanded Edelgard, as Petra knelt close to the brunette.

“Edie?” came the whisper, and Dorothea lifted her head. The other women gasped, and even Felix was shocked. She looked like hell. Clearly she had been crying all night, and...was that blood on her earlobes? Even her cap was crumpled and askew, her hair in knots. She looked more like Bernadetta after a bad fright than the typical Dorothea. “Edie, please...just...make sure she gets this,” Dorothea sniffed, reaching beside her for a large silk bag that clinked.

“Dorothea,” crooned Petra, patting her hand. “You are in stress. Have you slept? Why should Ingrid need these things now?”

Dorothea didn’t reply, and Edelgard impatiently took the bag and opened the string, glancing inside. She paused for a long instant, then looked again at her classmate on the ground. “Oh, my dear Dorothea...why?”

“She saved my life,” mumbled the actress, curling back up into a miserable ball. “She’s getting expelled because of me. I ruined her life.”

Edelgard laid the bag to the ground and knelt beside the songstress as well. “That doesn’t mean you should ruin your own.” Petra murmured a quiet assent. The girls were soon whispering quietly, although Dorothea’s shoulders slumped and soon began quivering once more.

The curiosity finally got to Felix. He stiffly limped over to the bag, ignoring Edelgard’s glare and Petra’s frown at his intrusion, but ignored them. He peeked into the bag and saw a collection of glittering gewgaws, but as an appraiser of ceremonial weapons and ancient and royal swords and armour, even he could appreciate the value of the gemstones and gold and silver inside. It must have been all of the jewelry Dorothea had been gifted throughout her career: bracelets, earrings, rings, necklaces, mirrors, hairpins, and other things he couldn’t even identify. The contents of this entire bag could easily feed the territory of House Galatea for a year. Maybe even two or three. And these were simply presents, fostered to a commoner actress who sang for a living in Enbarr, trinkets given by foolish nobles and merchants vying for her hand. Felix knew Faerghus was impoverished compared to the other nations in Fódlan, but he didn’t realize just how much until now.

He lowered the bag to see all three Black Eagle girls staring up at him, as if he was primed and ready for a sarcastic, scornful remark. Unfortunately, he knew how important Ingrid was to Dorothea. Even if his friend didn’t--or couldn’t--realize the same. And he saw Petra’s eyes, coolly regarding him even as he swallowed what he would normally say. “I’ll make sure she gets it, Dorothea,” he said quietly.

Edelgard and Dorothea regarded him with surprise, but Petra smiled her small proud smile at him. He rolled his eyes and sneered at her, irritation back in full force, even as the other girls lifted the actress to her feet. It only made Petra smile wider.

“Why Felix,” sniffed Dorothea, her face still puffy and red even as she vainly tried to smile. “How surprising. I guess even you can act out-of-character sometimes.”

Felix hefted the bag. “And I’m surprised you realized you can live without this stuff. It will make sure Ingrid doesn’t go hungry back in her territory. We both know she’ll appreciate that.”

Dorothea tried to laugh, but it was more of a hiccup, and a sad one at that. Edelgard was eyeing Felix, as if trying to divine his intent, while Petra hovered by her friend, saying, “Dorothea, you should return to your room. Ingrid will not like you falling to parts in front of her.”

“I believe she is right, Dorothea. Petra, please escort her. I will stay with Lord Fraldarius and help him in your stead,” interjected Edelgard smoothly.

Petra stiffened, but Felix shrugged and nodded once to her. She quickly smiled back and soon Petra’s left hand began guiding the tall brunette down the stairs, even as she began to sniffle once more. Felix waited for a long minute to make sure they were fully out of range, then turned to regard Ingrid’s door.

“Hold this,” he said, carelessly tossing the heavy cinched bag to Edelgard. She deftly caught it in a white glove. Raising his fist, he slammed it hard three times into the stout wood. “Wake the fuck up, Ingrid!” he yelled. “You’re not fucking thirteen anymore! Rise and fucking shine!”

“If this is how you treat your friends, perhaps it is best if we remain acquaintances,” murmured Edelgard. He snorted in agreement.

It didn’t take long. Stomping noises echoed inside the room, and in only a few moments a tearful and frazzled Ingrid, dressed in little more than a robe with a shift underneath, fairly ripped her door open to confront him. “What the hell is your problem, Felix?” she fairly screamed back, tears and bright blonde hair flying freely. “Here to gloat? Happy that you were right about me? That I’ll never be a Knight? Happy that Dimitri’s never going to be King? That Sylvain and I got expelled from the Academy? Well fine, you were fucking right about everything!” She raised her fists defensively. “Now get out of my face before I--”

In response to her tirade, Felix simply stepped to the side, revealing the slight Imperial Princess behind him.

Ingrid’s sense of propriety was instantly reasserted, even as she vainly tried to compose herself. “Y-your Imperial Highness! What’s--Felix--what’s this all about?” she asked, trying to wipe her face, looking bewildered between them.

Felix was silent and folded his arms, and Edelgard took up speech in his stead. “We found Miss Arnault outside your room, in a state of some distress. She wished to give you something.”

Now Ingrid looked away and crossed her arms over her chest, in a mirror image of her childhood friend. “I don’t want to see her,” she mumbled.

“You did yesterday when you defied orders,” said Felix snidely. “At least make your sacrifice worth something.”

“Shut...up!” hissed Ingrid back at him, her face still tearful and furious but now turning beet red. “I’m tired of your sanctimonious bullshit, Felix! If her Highness may forgive me.” Edelgard nodded back in clear amusement. “I don’t have time to deal with you. I have to pack my things and write to my Lord Father--”

“Then pack this as well,” interrupted Felix, grabbing the bag from Edelgard. He all but shoved it into Ingrid’s hands.

“What is this?” snarled Ingrid suspiciously, looking darkly between them, then she gasped when she looked inside.

“From Dorothea,” supplied Edelgard. “She wished to reward you for saving her life, Lady Galatea. I think it’s quite touching, if I may be honest.”

The blonde noblewoman was soon shaking her head back and forth, while her shoulders began trembling. “No. No, I won’t take this. This is all of it, isn’t it? All of her jewels, from the opera. She was so proud of them. And she wouldn’t be Dorothea without them. I can’t. I refuse the gift. Please give them back to her, Your Imperial Highness.” She held out the bag.

“Ingrid,” said Felix quietly, his eyes hooded. “Stop being an idiot. She thinks you’re worth it. You sacrificed everything for her. Your mount, your dream, and almost your life. Let her do her best to return the favor.”

“But--”

“You know how much your family--your people--need this,” he continued ruthlessly. He paused for a beat, then added, “Lady Galatea.”

Ingrid visibly flinched at the title. She lowered the bag in her hand, her handsome face crestfallen. They were all quiet for a long moment.

“Anyway,” said Felix roughly. _Ingrid really was going to leave,_ he belatedly realized. Somehow, he had denied that reality, even as he knew about it and acknowledged it. They would probably never spar again. She might be married off and living in Goddess-knows-where by the time he graduated. They even might never see each other ever again. The thought left him slightly nauseated. “You should...get busy,” he finally said, rather lamely. “Packing. I’ll write to you sometime.”

“You never write to anyone,” Ingrid sniffed at him, still downcast.

“I know. I will to you. And I’ll let you know how the boar--how Dimitri,” he amended himself. “Is doing. If they let him stay too. Who knows.”

For another long moment, neither one of them spoke. Edelgard stood still and quiet past the door, observing them.

Abruptly, Ingrid stepped forward and wrapped Felix in a fond hug. He rested his chin on her shoulder and hugged her back with one arm. “You are the biggest jerk in Fódlan,” she whispered bitterly past his ear. “I’ll miss you all the same.”

 _Damn it. This isn’t fair_. “Don’t get soft on me,” he said to her instead, pushing her back and looking her straight in the eyes. “You should keep training. Be who you are.”

“I’ll try,” she promised him with a ghost of a smile, stepping back. She turned her green orbs to the Princess. “Lady Edelgard, please convey my thanks to Miss Arnault, and tell her I will see her before I leave.”

“I think she will appreciate that, Lady Galatea,” said Edelgard gravely. “Very much so. We will excuse ourselves now, and give you some privacy.”

“Thank you,” said Ingrid softly, sorrowfully, and she shut her door, latching it with a clink.

Felix was already hobbling away, trying to stomp down the stairs. Edelgard quickly caught up with him, but kept his pace as he limped down each step, one by one. He could feel her soft violet regard settling on him, but he ignored her.

“You are a strange man,” said Edelgard as they slowly rounded the stairwell landing.

He shrugged, trying to keep his knee joint locked and immobile. “You’re a strange Princess,” he replied.

She actually laughed in response. “And with all the tact of a sword tip! I am beginning to see Petra’s interest in you.”

“She’s just interested in me because I beat her more often than not in sparring,” Felix said dismissively.

“Yet she can easily hold her own, against a Major Crest bearer even,” reminded Edelgard. “And you are more than a year her senior. I witnessed the two of you on the battlefield. Your coordination was impressive.”

“Was this before or after you almost died?”

Edelgard’s smile faltered a bit. “Beforehand, of course. On the wall. You saved Lysithea and Hubert from those cruel men. You have my gratitude.”

“Keep it,” he said rudely, wincing down the last step into the open air before the greenhouse and near the first floor dorms. Then he glanced down at the Princess. “Where is the Imperial Spider, anyway? Usually he never leaves your side.”

“‘Imperial Spider?’ That’s a new one. Hubert would appreciate your wit...just as I would appreciate your skill,” declared the Princess, moving to block his path and confront him.

“Ah, I get it now. You’re trying to recruit me to the Black Eagles,” sneered Felix. “You can save yourself the effort. I’m not interested.”

“Oh?” said Edelgard with an arched white brow. “I do realize it is early in the morning, and you are in pain. But I thought you were sharper than this. Your conversation with your former classmate should have enlightened you.”

“As to what?” ground out Felix, trying to casually lean against the stone. His knee ached and his reeking uniform from yesterday’s battle was becoming even more sweat stained.

“Ingrid is leaving, is she not? Along with Lord Gauiter. And Prince Dimitri may not regain the capacity or capability of staying on as the House Leader of the Blue Lions. Making the most likely candidate to replace him…” she spelled it out for him with acerbic sweetness.

Felix stared at the Princess in growing horror, his amber eyes wide and terrified. She was right. Inescapably, damnably right. Dedue couldn’t be House Leader; in fact, he would probably leave the Academy if Dimitri left. Ashe and Mercedes weren’t assertive enough. Annette, as House Leader? They would be lucky to only die within the week, if not within the day.

“Please keep my offer in mind,” said Edelgard, smiling broadly now. “Ferdinand is being expelled with the rest, so I could use a new right hand in my class. One that appreciates how the world truly works. And as a bonus, you could...train...with Petra every day.” As she held out her arm for him to lean on, she said, “Shall we?”

* * *

  
  


Blyeth opened her eyes to see her father and stepmother leaning over her pallet.

“How are you feeling, kid?” said Jeralt roughly.

She blinked her deep blue eyes. “Fine,” she said shortly. Her stomach growled noisily. “And hungry? I can’t remember when I last ate.”

“See Captain? I told you she’s all there,” snorted Trips, but noted the relief in her stepmother’s voice. Her robes were darkly stained with bodily fluids, and she instantly sank into a office chair in pure exhaustion. A blood wreathed bundle that was soon fast asleep.

“How bad is it?” asked Byleth, accepting her father’s strong grip as he lifted her to her feet. She wobbled a bit, but then stood tall and erect, looking up at him.

Jeralt scowled in memory. “Bad enough. A lot of casualties among the Knights; maybe two hundred dead, another fifty missing, and an unknown number of brothers and nuns were lost in the fighting…”

“The students?” whispered Byleth anxiously.

“Amazingly, they all survived...thanks to you, mostly.”

Byleth leaned hard against her father. “Thank the Goddess.” Then her stomach gurgled again, an echo audible throughout the room.

Her father laughed, a bright sound. “We’ve already broken fast, kid. We’ve got some leftovers for you on my desk…”

Byleth was past her father in two strides, grabbing a gnawed block of cheese from the tray on the desk and taking an enormous bite. She quickly washed it down with a tankard of iron-tinged well water and ripped another bite off the block.

Jeralt chuckled again as his daughter ate voraciously for the next two minutes. “I’d never thought I’d have to tell you this, but slow down, Byleth.” A light snore came Trips, her head bowed to her chest.

“I think it’s been two days...but you’re right,” sighed Byleth, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and sinking into her father’s chair. It creaked and groaned even for her weight. She glumly looked at her father. “I bet Lady Rhea’s angry at me. I failed in my first command. Outmaneuvered in the field by a simple trick,” she grunted bitterly, biting into a loaf. 

“A magical trick,” reminded Jeralt. “No one here blames you for that, kid. Not even Catherine.”

“Yeah, right. She has it in for me. She admitted to being Lady Rhea’s spy on me. Along with a hidden Cardinal in the army.”

“Welcome to the Church of Seiros. If anything, the lousy games of politics and back-biting and spying are even more intricate than those in the Alliance. At least the assassinations tend to be more verbal in nature,” chortled her father. But he grew serious once more. “Honestly though, Catherine and Shamir have had nothing but praise for you. Without your warning, and without the four hundred extra Knights, things could have gone bad. Real bad. Remember, kid, no plan survives contact with the enemy.”

“I know, dad. But I don’t think I’m qualified, or have the temperament to be a full field general. I’d feel better with a smaller, more agile task force. Leading my people from the front.” Taking another swig of water, she asked, “What happened to the town?”

That made her father frown. “We’re still trying to figure that out. Lonato sacked it and was trying to burn it to the ground, but Rhea caused the rainstorm that put the fires out. Most of the townsfolk survived, underground or in cellars, but then something weird happened just as the battle was ending. Somehow, just as the sun was setting last night, packs of monsters started swarming the entire town. Catherine detailed Shamir and a full company of archers with a squad of mages to clear it out as soon as it was dawn...”

“Hapi!” exclaimed Byleth.

“Huh? Whazit? Who’s happy?” snapped Trips, jerking awake from her stupor.

“You know something about this, kid?” inquired Jeralt keenly.

Byleth nodded around a mouthful of fresh bread. “Hapi is the name of a Dark Mage working with the gang that saved me and some of the students. She has the power to summon monsters when she sighs.”

Trips looked interested, despite her fatigue. “Whenever she _sighs_? What does she do, sew her mouth shut when she doesn’t want to summon something?”

“I think she’s trained herself to do it on demand, but she mentioned the power was forced on her, or something,” grunted Byleth, mournfully looking at the last bite of cheese. She hadn’t even noticed the taste, but now was grimacing at the large spots of mold on it and the pungent smell on her breath. She set it down and crunched back into the bread instead.

“What’s this about a gang?” asked Jeralt, less than interested in magical theory.

“I think it was the local thieves’ guild. The leader mentioned they knew Rhea, but that may have just been a con. Still,” Byleth shrugged, “they did pull me and Catherine and Mercedes out of a tight spot with Lonato. If they hadn’t he could have just blasted us right there with his thingamabob.”

“Hanneman’s going nuts trying to study it right now,” mentioned Jeralt dryly. “He’s been locked in his room with the pieces of it all night.”

“Pieces?” wondered Byleth.

“Dimitri broke it.”

“Dimitri nearly broke a whole bunch of other things,” winced Trips. “That reminds me, I need to get back down there and check on him. Make sure he’s still under and send Dedue and Marianne off to bed.”

“He is going to be better, right?” said Byleth innocently. “That was just battle madness...I remember you telling me about that, dad. It’s just a one time thing. Isn’t it?”

Jeralt and Trips glanced at each other.

“No,” Byleth frowned, angry at their expressions. “He’s not...he’s got to get better, I saved Edelgard, there’s no point for him to stay that way, he just has to see she’s okay…”

Jeralt raised a large fist to forestall his daughter. “We don’t know kid. The students were damned tight-lipped about it, except for Claude. And what he said wasn’t good. Apparently the Princess and I getting blasted into next week triggered a flashback in Dimitri. When that happens, he thinks he’s back in the Tragedy. He thinks everyone he sees is the enemy, trying to kill his family and friends. That’s why he nearly killed Dedue...almost choked his own vassal to death.”

“No,” said Byleth, shaking her head in firm denial. “The Prince Dimitri I know would never do that.”

“ _Dimitri_ wouldn’t, in his right mind, Byleth,” said Trips shortly. “But yesterday he was anything but. He tore up Felix’s knee--nearly dislocated it completely--and damn near broke every bone in Petra’s sword arm. Luckily Marianne arrived and was able to put him under.”

“That girl’s got some brass ones hiding underneath her scared kitten act,” muttered Jeralt in frank admiration. “I think I’ll have her graduate from the Academy just because of that.”

“‘Certified brass ovaries, signed Professor Blade-Breaker?’” snickered Trips at her Captain.

“Don’t give him any ideas,” deadpanned Byleth, regarding her father evenly. “He’ll do it.”

Jeralt rolled his eyes heavenward. “Sothis save me. Two of them. Ganging up on a helpless old man, far in his dotage.”

The three of them laughed, born of stress and exhaustion, when Byleth heard a voice yawn near her ear, _Hmmm, I was sleeping. Did someone call my name? Oh! Is it morning already?!_

“GAH!” screamed Byleth, leaping out of her father’s chair in a battle stance, hands on guard. Her parents jumped up as well, eyes wary.

Floating on an untouchable wind, the green veils of her dress and strands of hair billowing in an imagined breeze, Sothis’ childish face smirked down at Byleth from above her father’s desk. _Ah! So it is morning! And you didn’t even let me know! I so would have enjoyed getting a full belly along with you! Although you may want to pick your teeth and wash your mouth after all that cheese…_

“Mom? Dad? Please tell me you can see her,” whispered Byleth in a cold sweat, not relaxing her stance in the slightest.

“Kid, it’s okay…” started her father, helplessly searching the empty air before him. “See? There’s nothing there. It’s not real.” A scarred forearm waved in front of the desk in the direction where Byleth was fixedly staring, passing through Sothis’ body without resistance. Sothis rolled her large green eyes and made a slapping motion at the hand of Byleth’s father.

“Ow! What in the name of Saint Seiros’ tits was THAT?” yelled her father, clutching his fist.

“Leave him alone!” Byleth yelled, her anger building.

“Captain! What happened?” said Trips in a wild, shaky voice, gripping her staff.

“Something bit me!”

The child Goddess sniffed. _Oh shush. It was just a little sting. He’s being such a baby about it. Besides, what better way to settle this issue once and for all?_

Trips was torn, looking between Jeralt and Byleth, but hurried to her stepdaughter and grabbed her, forcing her to look into her eyes. “Byleth, look at me. Just listen to me. Not Sothis. Ignore Sothis. I’m real. Not her.”

_Please give me a break! You mortals are so transfigurally challenged! There are multiple levels of reality, in any case. Tell her that, Byleth._

Byleth’s eyes kept flickering to the side, but her stepmother’s grip was as to iron, her eyes boring into hers. Licking her dry lips, Byleth stammered out, “I’m sorry, Trips. I can’t ignore her. She’s too loud. She says she wants to talk to you.”

Trips’ eyes squeezed shut, as if in pain. But her gaze was still firm when she opened them again. “What does Sothis have to say to me, Byleth?”

Cocking her head, as if to hear better, Byleth listened, her mouth trying on words in silence. Then she spoke. “Sothis says there’s different layers of reality. She’s part of one...well, wait, now she’s yelling at me, she says there’s many...but we’re on another. She says she’s on a separate...plain? Of existence? The one where Gods dwell, but here in the...Prime universe, our world, she’s limited because she...died here. A long time ago. But now she can act through me as an...ava...avatar?” Byleth looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, she keeps yelling at me, and I can’t really understand it all.”

Her stepmother’s eyes were as hard as flint as they bored into her. “That’s because she’s _not real_ , Byleth. You have some powerful natural talent in anima, somehow, but that’s only because Rhea did something to your heart when you were a newborn. Whatever these visions are is just a consequence of you not controlling whatever abilities she gave you. That’s it, kid.”

Byleth’s face suddenly blanched. “Wait, Sothis, don’t--!”

“Ouch!! What the FUCK was that?!” screamed Trips, clutching her arm and dropping her staff, her eyes wide. “That fucking stings like blazes!”

“I’m going to get whatever this shit is,” growled Jeralt, unsheathing his broadsword and hacking through the air. Byleth’s head reverberated from Sothis’ giggles and taunts towards her father and stepmother.

Trips had picked up her staff again and was soon lost in a spell, trying to magically locate whatever was attacking them. Soon, her staff shone with a bright blue glow, along with Jeralt’s sword, and...Byleth’s chest.

Byleth patted at her breast, where the blue glow seemed to be localized. “Um, Mom--?” she quavered.

“See, Captain? Look at her! That’s whatever Rhea did to her!” shouted Trips, pointing at her stepdaughter.

“Then what’s attacking us?” growled the Blade-Breaker, still swiping at the air. Sothis blew an inaudible raspberry at him as his sword flew harmlessly through her.

“I don’t know! Some defense mechanism? Whatever it is, it’s trying to protect itself!”

 _Of course I’m protecting myself! I’m protecting myself from idiots! Why can’t they just simply believe?_ whined the Goddess. Another slight gesture from her caused yells of agony from her parents. _Just tell them I’m real!_

No, thought Byleth icily, glancing around for an option. If her parents didn’t want to believe, she wasn’t going to force them. Sothis was acting like a brat. It was time to bring her in line. And her only leverage was herself.

Byleth’s eyes settled on her gear, and she lunged for it.

Jeralt was still swinging his enchanted sword, along with Trips and her staff, with Sothis giggling and cackling like a mad thing when all three heard Byleth scream, “Stop it! Stop this right now!”

All three turned to see Byleth holding her dagger to her neck.

“Byleth…” said her father, dropping his sword with a clatter.

“Kid…” murmured Trips, holding out her hands.

 _And just WHAT do you think you are DOING?_ yelled Sothis, her small face enraged.

“Wait, guys,” said Byleth holding out her left hand to stop her parents. “I know what I’m doing. This is the only way to stop her.” She glared at the Goddess, floating above her parents. “Isn’t that right, The Beginning? Well, what if I just end us right here?”

 _You wouldn’t dare!_ hissed the Goddess. _Not when we are so close!_

“Kid, you don’t have to do this…” started Trips again.

“It’s okay, Trips. Let me keep talking with her,” grunted Byleth, digging a fine line into her neck, her eyes gazing off into empty air. “If I die, you die, right? That would be a big setback for you, wouldn’t it? So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re not going to hurt anyone...ANYONE...that I care about. Not even with what you call your little stings. Or I either slice myself open right here or jump off the nearest bridge.”

Sothis pouted and crossed her arms. _I just wanted some respect, that’s all._

“That’s just what you want. Not what you need, or I need. You’ve been gone for a thousand years, Sothis. It’s going to take time.”

Using slight hands signals, Jeralt and Trips looked to each other and started inching closer.

“Wait!” yelled Byleth again, still holding the dagger to her neck. “I’m almost done! She’s agreeing!

_Hmph. Fine. Have a couple of complete unbelieving imbeciles for parents. See if I care._

“And anyone else I care about,” growled Byleth at what only she could see. “My hand’s getting tired, Sothis. The edge is getting a little slick with our blood. I might slip.”

The Goddess’ gaze grew veiled. _You may regret extracting this vow from me, Byleth Eisner, daughter of Jeralt and Glaysa._

“I’ll take that risk. Freely,” said Byleth in a tone harder than the steel at her throat.

 _Very well. All that you care about are under my protection. And I shall not harm them...even when I could have. Wake me up when it’s lunchtime. Oh, and say hello to Seteth and Rhea and Catherine for me._ With a yawn and a twirl, the Goddess vanished

The door to her father’s office slammed open. Catherine had Thunderbrand out and leading, the fey orange light filling the room, its glow illuminating the green haired concerned faces of Seteth and Rhea a step behind her.

Byleth realized she was in her black underclothes, holding an arm out in front of her parents, with her other hand holding a dagger scraping at her neck, and they had been screaming at each other in this room for Seiros knew how long. She lowered the blade and belatedly tossed the dagger into the corner of the room. “Uh, this isn’t what it looks like--?”

That was as far as she got before she was fairly tackled by five bodies.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bwa ha ha! Evil!Sothis shall reign over all! The Fell Star is at last complete. You may fire on Alderaan when ready, Commander!
> 
> No not really. It's almost like there's...different Sothises? Now how can that be?
> 
> Petra/Felix tooth rotting fluff was fun.
> 
> Also, loved being the monkey paw to Rhea's fondest wish. Will it cure her delusional thinking? Only time will tell...
> 
> Next up, Byleth has to argue that she's not crazy, yet again. Rhea may have a solution. The Cardinals demand proof of a miracle. Yuri and Balthus make a "request" of Linhardt and Caspar. Mercedes recovers from her torpor with a special visit. Some couples go wild in their "last night" at Garreg Mach. Hubert looks for someone, but can't find them...


	31. Miraculum Sanctus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.
> 
> \--
> 
> Einstein

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN/TW: Direct references to prostitution, child abuse, imprisonment, abandonment, mental illness, suicidal ideation

Ch. 31 

Miraculum Sanctus

  
  
  
  


“How is she?” asked Balthus, drinking sloppily from his tankard.

Yuri’s face was drawn and hollow cheeked as the guildmaster entered one of the inn’s back rooms. “Not good,” they said quietly, collapsing into a chair and drawing a pale hand over their eyes.

“Someone watching her?” grunted the brawler. “If not, I can go and--”

“Some of the girls volunteered. It’s not like we’ll be getting much business in the foreseeable future. Too much of _The Mockingbird’s Nest_ to rebuild at the moment.”

Grunting, Balthus slurped at his tankard again before belching and saying, “We could use that reward from Rhea and Hilda and the rest. I told you I saved Claude, too, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Balthus. That’s only the fifth time. All very well and good, except Constance’s arm is in some wolf’s belly at the moment. There’s no hope of retrieving it. I should have picked it up…!” growled Yuri, slamming their hand on the table in a rare fit of self-reproach. More quietly, he said, “Then I could have healed her and she wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Balthus shrugged, then hefted his bulk off the small stool to pick up his gauntlets, strapping the serrated blades taut across his fists. “Think I’ll do another sweep of town. Try to find Hapi. Or some sign of her.”

“Maybe I’ll come with you, if only to help give her a proper burial,” muttered Yuri bitterly. “We’ve lost half of the Ashen Wolves, Balthus. Just because I was stupid.”

“Hey, boss, you didn’t know,” shrugged the ex-nobleman, stretching through a tight kata in the confined space. “From what everyone told me, the Academy kids threw you off your game. We’ll just have to keep an eye out for that bastard in the future. Hey, maybe if we turn his head back to the Church, they’ll give us more of a reward, eh?”

“Maybe,” muttered Yuri, but monetary rewards were the last thing on their mind at that moment. Constance’s bleeding had been stopped thanks to Yuri’s skill in Faith healing, but all through the night she had been a sobbing wreck in one of the inn’s bedrooms, madly clawing at her bandaged stump, insisting her left hand and fingers were still there, that she could _feel_ them. In between bouts of hysteria and despair, she kept trying to prove she could still cast spells with only one hand, trying to move and trace sigils and runes in the proper order and placement without her other arm. Her last disastrous attempt had nearly burnt down the inn and everyone in it. Balthus had returned by then, evading the packs of monsters that were prowling the ruined and fire gutted streets of the town, feasting on the glut of carrion from the recent battle, and his physical strength was almost necessary to help Yuri restrain the distraught Constance from anymore reckless behavior.

Yuri thought the morning sun shining through a window would bring relief, or at least respite from Constance’s agitation. Instead, she became even worse. Her “sunny” personality was so suicidally depressed that she simply and quietly reached for any and available bedding or pillow with which to smother herself. She had even attempted to grab Yuri’s sword from its sheath, saying that she needed to “finish what dear Emile has started.” Balthus had quickly hurried to close the shutters, baring the room from any sunlight. Between the news of Hapi’s sacrifice and the trauma of her own disfigurement, Constance von Nuvelle was quickly losing her grip on reality.

Yuri checked their rapier in their belt, but soon was leaning hard against the table, their fatigue catching up to them. They looked back when they felt a heavy hand on their shoulder.

Balthus’ dark eyes were full of sympathy. “Hey boss. You really up for this?”

“I have to be,” muttered Yuri, rolling their shoulders, shrugging off Balthus’ hand. “Stay close. I’ll take us to the alleyway outside…” they said, raising the orange glowing armband on their left wrist.

A knock came at the door.

“Enter!” called Yuri, canceling the teleport from his Relic.

Silas the innkeeper peered his shaggy head inside the room. “Master Yuri, some Knights at th’ inn door. Wantin’ to check for survivors, ‘ey said. One of ‘em is a real cuss.”

Yuri and Balthus considered this bit of news. “Who’s the cuss?” demanded Yuri.

“Archer woman. Looks foreign t’ me. Pale and purple hair.”

“Shamir,” hissed Yuri in recognition. They sighed. “I guess there’s no avoiding her. Let’s go, Bash bro.”

“Right behind you, boss,” nodded the brute.

The group followed Silas through the narrow wooden hallways, through the hot and steaming kitchen where the cook and serving boys were already trying to finish breakfast and start on supper. Silas and Yuri slipped through the press with long-practiced ease, but Balthus simply shoved his way through, ignoring the catcalls and curses raining down on his back.

The trio moved into the crowded common room, where tables and chairs were stacked aside to make room for homeless individuals and families, each crowded around their blanket or pallet, dark hollow eyes of misery staring up at the armed figures of Yuri and Balthus. Despite the summer heat, a warm fire full of broken timbers and furniture roared merrily in the large stone hearth, with strings of laundry displayed like banners in front of it. The broken doors of the inn were set aside, and several Knights of Seiros in dark leather armed with bows stood at the entrance, with a pale woman in green with silver shoulderguards at their lead. A longbow and a full quiver of clothyard arrows hung on her back.

Yuri disengaged from Balthus and Silas and stepped forward to greet the archer. It was important to play this just right for the audience. “Why hello there. My name is Yuri Leclerc, and I am the owner of this fine establishment. How may I serve you?”

It was delightful to watch Shamir roll her eyes and play along. “For starters, where did that giant wurm corpse come from that’s outside your street? My men are shooting down the rocs and driving away the wolves with fire arrows, but from what we’ve heard, monsters showed up on your doorstep...first,” inquired Shamir in a cool monotone.

Yuri’s easy smile didn’t falter, but his guard was instantly up. “That’s a discussion that requires some privacy.”

“Then let’s get some, why don’t we? You have half an hour. My men will guard the entrance to the inn. Lead the way.”

Shrugging, Yuri led the way to the cellar, nodding once to Silas and Balthus, catching their eyes. Silas instantly bustled off to his duties, and Balthus took up position by the cellar stairs, his mass blocking the sunlight as Yuri led Shamir down into the dank mustiness, into a small room crowded with wine bottles and casks, amidst bins of root vegetables and barrels of salted meat. Yuri lit the way with a faint glow of anima, the white light nestled in a palm. But once inside, they quickly lit a small lantern, hanging it on a hook from a floor beam overhead. Faint voices and dust rained down on the pair as the people in the common room went about their business.

“What happens in a half an hour?” asked Yuri, turning to Shamir with another loose smile.

“Nothing too drastic. My men pull back to the Monastery and report me as dead. I’d imagine Catherine might take it poorly, however,” said Shamir.

“Well, that’s not a threat to take lightly, is it? She is a little feisty, isn’t she?”

Nodding, Shamir looked over the cellar, examining the floor especially. “Place looks like how she described it. She didn’t really have a good word for you, but I’d imagine Knight Byleth and the students were grateful.”

Grimacing, Yuri apologetically displayed the thin blade on their belt. “A most regrettable situation that I had to leave just at that moment. But as you know, I’m not really built for taking out monsters. That’s more of a job for a Relic.”

“But you can use anima now?”

“Let’s just say I discovered I’m more of a lover than a fighter.”

“That’s right,” replied Shamir. “You were training for the priesthood while still honing your swordsmanship.” Then she tilted her head. “So where did the monsters come from?”

Sighing, and feeling poignant pain in their chest as they did, Yuri began to retell the story of Hapi.

To her credit, Shamir didn’t interrupt, even keeping her smooth mask in place as he recounted the tale of Jeritza’s attack against his own, and the slaughter and battle that followed.

“--and we cleared out after that. She sacrificed herself to take him out. So. Believe it or not. That’s where all the monsters came from.”

“Where did this happen?” demanded Shamir.

“Near the intersection of Rue du Est and the Abysstown farmer’s market.”

Nodding in recognition, Shamir said, “We found some half-eaten corpses and tunnels from where the wurms burrowed through the streets.” Noting Yuri’s pain reaction, she added more kindly, “No signs of anyone like Hapi’s description or...Professor Jeritza’s.”

“Thank you,” said Yuri quietly. “Maybe there’s still hope.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Shamir bitterly, then regret flashed on her face as she saw Yuri’s pained reaction. “Shit. Sorry Yuri. Long day. Didn’t sleep.”

“It’s fine,” said Yuri, turning away. But that had hurt. Yuri, for every mask on their person, still wanted to believe in hope at the end of the day.

And thus was supremely surprised to feel a warm hand on their shoulder, that slightly squeezed.

“It’s not your fault, Yuri,” said Shamir quietly.

Yuri was touched, if they were being honest. Blinking rapidly, Yuri turned with a brave smile and said teasingly, “Careful, Shamir. Cracks in that mercenary facade? You’ll lose your rep.”

Shamir surprised him again by nodding. “You’re right. I nearly lost someone important yesterday too. I didn’t realize how important until almost too late.”

That struck a little too close to what Yuri was feeling at this moment. They turned away, blinking rapidly. “I hate this job,” they whispered.

“You’re strong enough to take it, though,” said Shamir with another squeeze. Then she stepped back. “That’s why you were one of my favorite students.” Then she frowned at them. “Although I’m still pissed you never took your archery classes seriously. With your speed--”

Yuri laughed with a familiar eye-roll. “And this is why you were my favorite teacher at the Academy. No mincing of words. I keep telling you, it’s hard to find the appeal of bows when you can just blast someone with a spell.”

“And I’ll keep telling you until you’re grey, I can put five arrows into someone by the time you finish casting one spell.”

The banter had its desired effect. Yuri felt his dark mood lift and much lighter, smiling back at his old tutor. “Thanks, Shamir.”

The Knight shrugged, all business again. “I’ll let Rhea know how much you and your men have sacrificed,” she acknowledged, then stared directly into his eyes. “You did stuff you didn’t have to do. I’ve always told you you’re either nicer than you look...or you’re the worst thief ringleader I’ve met.”

Yuri smiled, although it was a bit sad this time. “Eh. Maybe a bit of both?”

This time Shamir smiled back. Yuri tried to memorize it and the occasion; they knew it was a rare one, given only on special occasions. “I’ve got to get back,” she announced. “I’ll leave four squads here to help, but I think the monsters are gone. Time to start salvaging what we can.” Then she sighed wearily, her fatigue showing somewhat openly now, rubbing at small bags on her eyes. “If I can get Rhea to listen. They’re still going crazy over Knight Byleth up there. Everyone’s over the moon with her. Anyway. Want to escort me out so your bruiser doesn’t try anything?”

“Sure thing, Knight of Dagda,” winked Yuri playfully.

Her smile turned sardonic. “I’d normally shoot anyone who said that with an arrow, but from what I’ve heard about you recently, you might just ‘dodge’ it.”

“I might. Or maybe I’d take any arrow that you’re offering,” flirted Yuri with a wag of his eyebrows.

“Gods, you’re insufferable. I forgot how much like Sylvain Gautier you used to be.” The Knight gave Yuri a playful, familiar shove up the steps. “Get going, little bird.”

Yuri shuddered as they ascended the stairs. “Oh Goddess, and I forgot that your insults are the worst. I’m gonna need to take a bath from that one. Compared to a Gautier. Ugh.” At the top, a smiling Balthus grinned at their faces and bowed as he let them pass, and soon Shamir had her Knights rounded up. A majority of them followed her back up the hill to the monastery, with four squads splitting into groups of fives, patrolling the streets for looters and other unlawful activity, now that the monsters had been killed or driven away from the streets. Yuri decided they didn’t need to mention that some of his men were already doing that. Four squads was more than was expected. Shamir was being generous for old time’s sake, and they decided it was best to encourage that.

Silas rushed up to him as soon as the Knights left, with one of the girls behind him. “Master Leclerc. You’d better come. She’s trying to cast spells one-handed again, and it’s scaring everyone up there.”

“Ah, shit,” groaned Balthus, burying his face into his hands. “Look, boss, you wanna run up there to the Monastery to collect from Rhea? I can stay and watch her. You know I can heal well enough if things get bad.”

“I’d do it, except Shamir said Rhea was busy with Byleth…” muttered Yuri, trailing off thoughtfully. They turned to confront Balthus. “Hey Bash bro. You met Knight Byleth, right? Why’s everyone making a big deal about her? Besides the whole Ashen Demon bit. Didn’t figure Rhea for a merc lover.”

Balthus looked blank for a second, then his face lit up. “Oh, yeah, sorry! With all the craziness, I forgot to tell you! Um, Silas, here saw it too…”

“Saw what?” the innkeeper demanded, backing away slowly. “I didn’t see nuthin’! What scam are you dragging now, you rogue?”

“Mean. Accurate, but mean,” said the giant brawler with a wounded air. “Ah, I’m talking about when that student got injured? Off her flying horse? Remember what happened after that?”

The innkeep all but sagged in relief. “Oh, that. Yeah, when Knight-General Byleth, the Saint Reborn healed everyone. That’s why you didn’t have much to do back here, Master Leclerc,” explained the tubby man to a gaping Yuri. “She cast a spell and everyone inside the inn was healed. Tip-top shape! Except between poor Lady Nuvelle’s injury and the excitement of keeping the wolves and rocs out all night, we must’ve forgotten to tell you about it…”

“Anyway!” said a cheerful Balthus, picking up his cue. “Yeah, it was pretty awesome. I had a busted leg from that wurm, from where it tossed me in the stupid slick rain, then wham! It flexed back into shape. Didn’t even hurt! Uh...boss…? You okay?”

Yuri was leaning hard against a wooden support column, their purple eyes wide and staring. “A Fortify…” they whispered.

Another girl, Becky, came rushing down the stairs, running up to the group. “Master Leclerc? She’s getting real bad. Clover and Alice are holding her down, but we need help right now.”

Yuri snapped out of their stupor and was already moving up the stairs. “C’mon, B. Let’s go get her.”

“Oh, right! Sorry, we kinda got side-tracked telling that story about Knight Byleth casting that super healing spell. Yeah, Constance needs us right now...”

At the top, Yuri turned on Balthus with a hiss, and their friend took a hesitant step back. “No. She doesn’t need _us_. We’re taking her up there. We’re going to get her cured,” declared Yuri, their face fixed into a determined scowl.

Balthus’ face twisted in confusion. “Cure...a missing limb,” he stated skeptically.

“Exactly. And I know the one person up at the monastery who might pull it off. And more importantly,” said Yuri with a grim and dangerous smile. “They owe me. They owe me big time.”

  
  


*

  
  


Hapi woke in darkness.

_Huh. Death is cold and wet. Stinks like shit, too._ _Awesome._

Slowly, the aches in her joints and the sharp pains in her body convinced her, at least for the moment, that she was alive. She noted her head was sore too, as she cautiously felt along her scalp and hissed as she touched a large swollen knot on her head. Hapi cautiously rolled about, trying to get her bearings without sight, feeling damp straw and cold rock beneath her skin and clothing, trying to remember why she wasn’t dead, either by Jeritza’s sword or fang and claw.

_I sighed. I sighed so much they were all going to kill both of us. But then that Jertiza guy just stepped forward to me with his sword hilt--must’ve knocked me out--because I saw nothing but purple lights...._

Murmuring an incantation, Hapi reached up and tried to heal her damaged skull. She felt dizzy and sick; while she wasn’t a master of white anima, like Yuri-bird, she could at least make herself feel a little better. _Probably concussed by that maniac. Asshole._

Nothing happened as she touched her hair.

Frowning in the inky black, Hapi muttered the spell again, then felt what was cancelling her spell. A pervasive wrongness about her, twisting the intent of her anima before it even had a chance to begin, dissipating the energy harmlessly back into the ether faster than she could channel it. A cold chill stole through her body, one that had nothing to do with the moist and unsanitary conditions.

A magic dampening cell. She was back in one. She had been in ones much like it, for most of her life.

Panic tore through her, bubbling through her throat in an anguished sob, one magnifying and multiplying the pains in her body. “No. No, no, no, no, no, no…” she chanted, stumbling to her feet and feeling along the walls for something, anything. Touching nothing but cold wet stone and eventually, the rusty metal bars of her prison cell. She gave the iron gating a firm shake, flexing her shoulders and biceps as hard as she could. Then again. And again, harder each time, her grunting breathing trying to choke back a scream. She only succeeded in cutting open her hands on the cold flakes of rust coating the metal.

This time she did scream, her voice echoing in the dark. “NO! I won’t go back here! I fucking will not! Do you hear me? _I will_ _not!_ ”

She had friends, outside of here. She had escaped this nightmare before, when her imprisoner had become lax and distracted in the days following the Tragedy of Duscar, and wandered the alleyways and backstreets of Fhirdiad for a time. Eventually she had been rescued by the Knights of Seiros, then just as abruptly consigned to the Abyss outside the monastery walls, because she was deemed a threat to the community. At that point, she didn’t much care. After living for so long underground, you slowly get used to it. But she had made a life for herself despite all of that. She had people, outcasts like herself, who accepted her despite the risks. Who wanted to be her friends, despite her flaws. And for that to suddenly be taken away and thrust back into an unending nightmare...she screamed again into the blackness, a raw animal sound of pure outrage and denial, her brain pounding as waves of pain and nausea gripped her and spots swam before her eyes.

The only sounds in return were slow drips of water and her own ragged breathing.

_Wait._ _Breathing._

Ignoring all the pain, all her fear, Hapi stood clutching the iron bars with all of her might, and with a long intake of breath, _sighed._ As loudly and as long as she could.

Again.

And again, pouring her soul into the summons.

She stood listening, hopeful, expectant. But as the drips of water continued in the infinite blackness, she realized that nothing was going to happen. The bastards must’ve blocked her access to that power, too.

The void in front of her eyes was nothing like the one now curling inside of her soul, dragging it down faster than a leaden anchor. Giving the iron portcullis one final blind kick of her sodden boot, she dragged her bloody fingers across the bars to the nearest wall and sank down against the harsh cut stone, curling herself and her wet clothing into a posture of misery, trying to maintain what little warmth she had. Trapped. No escape. A prisoner once more. Against people who obviously knew who she was, and what she was. The only thing she had ever been for as long as she could remember.

An experiment.

She stayed there for some time, the chill seeping into her bones, when there was a chitter in the musty darkness, with a skittering sound of tiny feet and nails on stone. Raising her head, she focused with all of her might, trying to listen to the quiet sounds and noises, trying to focus on any magic she could use in this environment. Her mind flashed with the answer of the creature who answered her summons. A long stringy naked tail, with moist matted fur, persistent teeth and a questing nose and whiskers. It was scared and confused, because it had heard something call for it, but could not find anything recognizable. Hapi focused all of her power into her mind, as much as she could, trying to access the small creature’s psyche with her own. Then suddenly, with an intuitive flash, she found she could “speak” with her new cellmate in a limited manner.

The nearby chitters grew louder, more distinct, as they were translated into her mind. _< Biglegs? A biglegs speaks to me/we/us?>_

Something furry and quick brushed by her hunched feet.

A rat. Hapi stilled her body and reached down a hand, trying to calm herself from the crawling sensation in her skin and focusing on an image of warmth, safety and security. The skittering noise drew closer.

She sighed again, trying to make it gentle and welcoming.

Rough whiskers brushed her fingertips and a small nose took in her scent. The chirrups and trills grew excited as it felt a kinship with her. < _Biglegs friend! Biglegs speaks! Good biglegs can get rid of groundteeth, clawegs and barklegs! Biglegs friend one of me/we/us! >_

Hapi tried to keep her focus and Crest blood in line with what limited power she had. Her summoning power _did_ work here, but only at the most miniscule level. Maybe she had gotten more powerful over the intervening years, so much that she could overcome the dampening effect, only barely. Still, she would take it. Breathing out a gusty sigh this time, Hapi tried to picture herself as a rat, trapped inside a cage. She projected an image of sadness as she tried to claw and bite her way out, but could not. She would help her small friend if she could, she thought with regret.

She sensed the small creature’s ears drooping and it was sympathetic to her, on some level. _< Ohhhh...Biglegs friend trapped.> _Then the rat’s thoughts brightened. _< But don’t worry! When Biglegs dies in trap, you feed me/we/us! Much food for all!>_

 _Yuck. Gross._ But Hapi kept her thoughts from becoming disgusted. Instead, she focused on what she could do with this tiny little summon. Perhaps the rat could bring her things, stuff she could use to escape, like a ring of keys. At this point, she would even take a small hunk of cheese. When had she last eaten? She couldn’t remember, and she was starving. But even more importantly, she had to know where she was to have any chance to escape. An idea, born out of the sharp pain in her fingers from shaking her cell, came to her. _Food for thoughtfood?_ she “asked” the rat. She didn’t know how to explain the concept of “information” to a rat.

She could sense the rat’s whiskers quivering in the darkness as it was briefly confused. _< Eat for thinkeat? Biglegs friend strange.>_

In response, Hapi held out her hand, squeezing her fist to let her blood drip from her sliced palm and cut fingers, pattering to the ground near the rat. It instantly became interested and started lapping the ground, the chitters turning greedy and satisfied. 

_< Rich and tangy. Strongpower in blood. Me/we/us change mind. Biglegs friend smart. Smart despite getting trapped.> _

_Where am I?_ she quested with her mind, offering more blood to the ground with her other hand, to the rat’s delight.

< _Coldstonedark home. Food in warmlights, but guarded by clawlegs and barklegs. Sometimes groundteeth, or badfeels. >_

A castle of some sort. The rat was explaining the dance of its existence, of trying to eat anything while avoiding the castle’s cats and dogs, traps and poison. That was encouraging. Now if she could find a landmark, or at least a region nearby. Maybe she could tell where she was by who owned the castle? _Many biglegs in castle...er, Coldstonedark? Bad biglegs?_

The rat took a moment from its meal to squeak angrily. _< Many bad biglegs. They guard food in hardstuff, friends with clawlegs and barklegs. They set groundteeth and badfeels near nests. You only nice biglegs me/we/us know.>_

Hapi tried to keep her frustration out of her thoughts, focusing on her only edge in this predicament, this tiny little furry thing which unknowingly held her existence in its paws. She didn’t hate rats, but she didn’t regularly seek their company either. _Bad biglegs go clank clank?_ she asked, thinking about the noises of swords and armour, the acrid smell of oxidized iron. Then she thought of robes and fabric rubbing together, projecting that mental image to the rat’s brain. _Or go rustle rustle?_

Another timid squeak. _< More rustle rustles. Rustle rustle biglegs smell badwrongsick. All me/we/us avoid. Even clawlegs and barklegs.> _The rat answered, still enjoying every drop of coppery blood from her, eagerly lapping it up before it cooled.

Oh, damn her soul to the Valley of Ailiel. _This was bad. This was very bad._ She knew exactly what kind of people that all animals instinctively feared and avoided. She had been a prisoner of one for seven long years. Hapi tried to keep a sense of rising anxiety from bubbling out of her chest, focusing on projecting her sighs and soothing thoughts as a rat to her little furry friend. _Do rustle rustle biglegs kill other biglegs? Put them in traps too?_

Many squeaks. _< Yes yes, but many litters before. Me/we/us eat, grow fat, many pups, no need to eat others to survive. Was lots of dead biglegs to eat then. Always. Then stopped, no more. Forced to find food in warmlights. But you first/one talking biglegs. Offer blood freely. No need to bite and fight for blood. Nice biglegs.>_

Congratulations from a rat on being free food. That was suitably morbid considering her circumstances. And it fairly confirmed which group a crazed madman like Jeritza was associated. She had to escape and warn Yuri-bird and the rest of the gang. Hell, maybe even the Knights of Seiros. Let both of these groups of bastards kill each other off, and she could die a happy woman. She returned to her questioning, her “thoughtfood.” _And what is outside of Coldstonedark?_ Hapi tried to picture sunlight and nighttime to the small creature’s primitive mind.

The rat became agitated and frightened in response, forgetting the last drops of blood. _< You mean Bigopen Bigsmells! Nonono, Bigopen Bigsmells is bad and scary. Swoopclaws and fastbites are there. Even when Bigopen Bigsmells dark, it too dangerous. Too many swoopclaws, too many fastbites, too many stomping Biglegs everywhere, riding on Hugestomps.>_

Hapi tried to formulate her thoughts for her next question, while trying to reassure the small rat that it didn’t have to go outside of its home as it shivered and trembled in fear. But the rat’s answer indicated a town, with maybe a forest nearby if it had owls and hawks, and foxes and snakes. At least that’s what she thought “swoopclaws” and “fastbites” might be. “Hugestomps” must be horses, and a lot of horses meant enough farms and fields nearby to feed them. _Is Bigopen Bigsmells longcold or longwarm?_ She quested again with her magic, trying to picture icy snow on the ground in one mental image, or a hot summer with a blazing sun in the next.

The rat’s nose twitched in the darkness, then it hissed. _< Biglegs friend is silly. Longcold is silly. No such thing as longcolds. Wetcolds, yes, but no such thing as longcolds.>_

If the rat didn’t know what snow was...she couldn’t be in the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Or anywhere in the mountains, and Leceister had an abundance of mountain ranges surrounding it. Adrestia. She had to be in the Adrestian Empire. She acknowledged the logic of that...it made sense that someone named Emile von Bartels, someone Coco had recognized from her childhood, was probably an Adrestian noble. Where was House Bartels exactly? She had no idea. _Shit. Coco and Yuri-bird were always astounded by my ignorance of Fódlan geography. I mean, that’s what you get when you’re raised as a prisoner._ But Hapi was chilled by her next logical thought.

_By the Stars...if they’re in Adrestia...that means they’re everywhere. They’re not just in Faerghus, but here too…_

_< Biglegs friend very still. Is Nice Biglegs dead now?> _The rat was cautiously sniffing her body. _ <Time to get more me/we/us to eat warm bloodmeat?>_

Hapi grunted bitterly, and she rose from the floor, finally tired of her conversation with the rat, growing angry at the thought of being eaten and nibbled and forgotten in the darkness. She knew it was misdirected, but she couldn’t help it. “No,” she responded aloud to the furry vermin. “Not dead yet.” Saying it aloud made her feel a little better. It made it a little more real. Maybe, with the rat’s help, she could do something.

The rat squeaked shrilly at her voice as it skittered away from her. _< Biglegs use boomvoice. Not nicevoice. Nicevoice better.>_

She noticed there was no “friend” appellation in the rodent’s last statements. She’d have to be careful about that, and be sensitive to the small animal’s perceptions. But an echoing creak of an opening door, and other voices, were soon heard in the darkness, and with her light-sensitive eyes thought she saw something brightening at the periphery of her vision. Channelling her thoughts into a feeling of fear and hiding, she thought to her only ally, _Run! Escape! Flee!_

The rat chittered and eeked as it scampered off to parts unknown, between the bars of her cell and out into the darkness. It sent out one last appreciative thought. < _Bye bye Nice Biglegs. Hope you not food next time! >_

She barely acknowledged the rat’s last message, blindly backing up in the cell against the far wall, trapped by the rough unyielding stone. A shining light was approaching her, along with voices that were slowly becoming distinct. The voices of her captors.

“You called me away at a critical juncture, Myson. I had to cancel a date with Grand Duke Rufus. That forced me to inform Thales, and he was _most_ displeased. What could possibly demand warping me all the way down here?”

That voice. She remembered that voice. Instantly Hapi’s breath was freezing in her lungs, and her heart started to pound, overwhelming everything else in another blind animal terror, her thoughts becoming a monotonous repetitive litany. _Not her. Not her. NOT HER._

A dark chuckle. “Trust me, Calliope. This prisoner that the Death Knight brought in is worth every moment of your time. I wanted it to be a surprise for you. Thales will understand.”

“Hm. So you say. What could that worthless brute from House Bartels...excuse me, House Hyrm...find of interest to us in the streets of Garreg Mach? It had better not be one of the Blue Lion brats. Any one of them could recognize me in this form, and we would have to dispose of them right here and now.”

Hapi curled up on the ground, shutting her eyes away from the blinding light growing closer, that hated, honey-voiced harpy coming closer towards her, _closer_. She found herself blinking away hot, unwilling tears, suddenly praying to a Goddess she didn’t even believe in for mercy, for death, for _anything except this, oh Goddess and Stars and Anything listening please no please no..._

“Oh, this one will recognize you. She’s an old experiment of yours. I remember at one point you were very excited by the possibilities.”

“Really? What are you going on about….oh wait, could it be? Hold the lantern higher, Myson, I do think I know who that lovely red hair and rich dark skin belongs to! Oh! You were right! What a most _delicious_ surprise!”

Hapi hugged herself tightly against the wall, wanting to vomit but too dehydrated to do so. She wanted her heart to stop and her life to end. She wanted to disappear forever. Anything to escape this. Nothing could be worse than this. She sensed the figures stop close near the iron bars, and felt a faint warmth and light shine directly on her face, piercing through her eyelids.

The melodic, crooning, _vicious_ voice spoke again, light and mocking. “Oh, my dear sweet darling Hapi. My lost little Major Crest of Timotheus. I know I taught you better than this. You always must look at me when I’m speaking. Isn’t that right, child? You _know_ what will happen if you don’t.”

Hapi knew. She remembered. She could never forget, damn it.

Slowly, with the greatest reluctance, Hapi opened her red-rimmed eyes from the ground to confirm her worst fear.

Cornelia Arnim, the Archmage of the Royal Family of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, smiled sweetly down at her, next to another pale dark robed mage holding the lantern, who grinned evilly at her from under his black hood. Now that she had some light, Hapi could see every inch of the walls of the cell, from the floor to the ceiling, were inscribed in flowing runic spellwork that shimmered and reflected light from the lantern’s flame. She would have no chance of magically escaping this cell. None. She would have a better chance of chewing through the metal bars with her teeth like a rat.

The rat. Must never tell them about the rat. It was her only prayer now.

Leaning casually against the bars of the cell with her elbows, Cornelia leaned forward intimately and nearly spilled out of her ornate robes. She whispered in a voice of spun like vile sugar, “My little Hapi. Oh, how I’ve missed you. So, so much. But first things first, dearie. You can’t imagine how heartbroken I was to find that you escaped our special little home. You know what that means, don’t you?” The archmage twirled a strand of her light red hair with a finger. “You betrayed my trust, Hapi, after years of learning how to be a good pet and earning your special privileges. So now,” she said in a bright and cheery tone, “we’ll have to start all over again!” The archmage’s face thrust forward suddenly, her forehead and cheeks twisting in a way no human face should, looking more demonic than natural, her lips twisting into a ceaseless promise of cruelty and pain.

“All the way from the very beginning,” said her original kidnapper in a sing-song tone.

Hapi could not have stopped herself from shuddering in fear and disgust if she tried.

  
  


*

  
  


The tension in the Archbishop’s audience chamber was so thick it could only be cut with a Relic.

On one side, Jeralt and Beatrix stood side by side with their daughter, who was back to her stoic and reserved self, although something like resignation hung around her face and eyes. She had willingly accepted the tightly wound restraints on her wrists and ankles to prove her cooperation and obedience in light of what had just happened. Professor Jeralt’s eyes were glaring murderously at Rhea, his hand on the broadsword at his belt, while Trips tried to observe as much as she could while trying her best to shield Byleth with her own body, her staff held defensively before them. On the other side, Thunder Catherine stood with her stance wide, Thunderbrand unsheathed, her hands on the hilt and the tip touching the ground, looking moments away from a charge. Behind her stood Archbishop Rhea, who looked uncharacteristically nervous and timid, plucking at the edges of her robes, and High Abbot Seteth, his stern face only more severe and foreboding this morning. To the sides stood Professor Hanneman and Professor Manula, their own poses confused and bewildered.

Seteth looked to Rhea, waiting for her to speak, and take charge of this charged situation, but Rhea appeared almost... _afraid_ of Byleth. She hid it well, but he could read it, deep within his sister’s bright green eyes. Suddenly he wished that Flayn was here, but she was likely still in bed, happily resting after he had given her permission to help heal both student and Knight last night. Even Shamir’s cold-eyed pragmatism would be welcome, as well have the effect of calming Catherine down, whose blue eyes were colder than ice as she stared death at the family before her. No matter her feelings for anyone else, Catherine would not tolerate _any_ threat to Rhea. Even other people she freely admired and respected as friends and equals.

Jeralt rasped out, “Rhea. I want the truth. What did you do?”

The question hung heavily in the air. Rhea was silent, but her face looked to Byleth in silent appeal, as if she was seeking some sign from the young Knight in front of her.

Byleth endured the scrutiny of the Archbishop for a long moment, then shrugged stiffly in response. Seteth was surprised by such a brusque gesture from the young Knight. Just what was going on here?

Even more shocking was Rhea’s response. The Archbishop simply sighed, a heartbroken, defeated sound. Then she said with a mere trace of her usual serenity, “Professor Jeralt. Please step into my study, and I will explain everything to you.”

“No more lies?” growled the Blade-Breaker.

Rhea firmly shook her head, the light green tresses swaying under her tiara. “None, Jeralt. Although much of what I have already told you was the truth, there were...lies of omission,” Rhea admitted. Much more quietly, she added, “And I have already been rebuked for my sinful ways.”

Seteth glanced sharply at his sister at that. A dark suspicious crept into his mind. _The Fortify. Has Mother already spoken to Seiros? Through her divine blood?_

Jeralt’s face softened slightly as he nodded to his daughter and Beatrix, and moved to follow Rhea into the nearby study. But Catherine blocked his path. “Disarm yourself first,” the Holy Knight demanded, raising Thunderbrand.

“Catherine! Do not presume!” Rhea shouted in command as she whirled to diffuse the confrontation.

Catherine laughed brightly as she ignored her superior entirely. “Sorry, no can do, Lady Rhea. I swore an oath to protect you from anything. That includes your own bad judgement. Until he unbuckles his sword, he’s not going in there alone with you.”

Jeralt looked baffled for a moment, then grunted shortly in amusement. “You really think my sword could do anything to Rhea?”

“ _Lady Rhea,_ ” the Holy Knight growled back viciously.

“Catherine!” barked an angry Seteth. “Cease this insubordination at once!”

The Golden Deer Professor chuckled as he waved Seteth off. “Fine. It’s fine. Who cares.” There was a brief tug and rip of straps, and the scabbard and blade fell carelessly to the ground with a dull ringing clatter. Jeralt held up his hands placatingly to the blonde woman. “Now it’s just little ol’ me, kid. An elderly ex-Knight. You can stand guard by the doors if you like, but I think Rhea and I need to have this talk.”

“Lady Rhea? Are you sure?” asked Catherine, slowly calming herself and lowering her sword.

“Yes,” said Rhea in a dun tone, regaining some of her regality and presence. “We will speak of this later, child. Jeralt. Please join me inside.” Moving past Catherine, Jeralt followed the Archbishop inside her study, but paused to look back at his daughter, her hands and feet bound and her face a blank mask.

Byleth stared back at her father.

Then winked her right eye.

Her father’s scarred face smiled in delight, and turned to walk into the lion’s den, shutting the doors behind him.

Silence descended on the group after the latch tripped shut.

Byleth bowed her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into the stillness.

“Oh, my poor little dear,” murmured Manuela, sweeping forward and awkwardly hugging Byleth across her shoulders. “I don’t have the slightest idea of what’s happening, but I also don’t believe for an instant you’d actually hurt yourself.”

“I know she wouldn’t,” insisted Beatrix by Knight Byleth’s side. “But...well, it’s complicated, Manuela. Byleth may not have been...fully in control of herself.”

Blinking at that, Hanneman tried to hazard a guess at what Beatrix was insinuating. “As in...multiple personalities? Possession?”

“Drugs?” said Manuela sympathetically, hugging Byleth with familiarity again. “Oh, dear, I know _exactly_ what you must be going through, poor thing!”

The discussion was making Seteth extremely uncomfortable. He declared sternly, “There is no need for any supposition amongst ourselves…”

“Yes there is, Father,” interrupted Catherine, leaning on her sword, as Seteth sputtered at her effrontery. She went only relentlessly. “You weren’t there, Seteth, on the Magdred Way. Something strange happened. It all started when Byleth collapsed from exhaustion on our third day in the fog, then an hour later she woke up and knew...a bunch of stuff. About Lonato’s plans, his movements, and...other things,” trailed off the Holy Knight, her blue eyes glaring uncertainly at Byleth and Beatrix.

Byleth was attempting to look stoic, but a hint of fear leaked through as she nodded back at Catherine. “It’s true,” she said quietly. “I know things I shouldn’t. Without people telling them to me.”

Hanneman was all but fluttering his gloved fingers in excitement at this revelation. He instantly produced a quill and notepad from his robes. “Such as?” he asked, his grey mustache twitching.

Shaking her head now, Byleth was starting to look pained. “No. I won’t do it. Not without someone’s permission. That’s mean. I had to do it to Catherine on the road, to convince her, but otherwise, it’s just cruel.”

Hanneman instantly volunteered himself. “Oh I will volunteer! I do believe I have nothing to hide…!”

“Don’t be a fool, Hanneman,” Manuela scoffed loudly. “Everyone has something to hide.” Seteth and Catherine were silent, both quietly watching Byleth.

Beatrix sighed and offered herself, if only for a distraction from the tension. “Fine, in the name of magical research.” She stepped forward and faced her stepdaughter, leaning heavily on her white staff but smiling. “What’s something you know about me I haven’t told you, kid?”

“Mom…” Byleth hesitated.

“You’re fine, kid. You can’t hurt me. I won’t be offended. Pinky swear.”

Seteth silently observed as the young Knight appeared to listen to something, cocking her head to the side as if in an attempt to hear better. It took a long minute, but soon she nodded and said, “Okay. Yeah, this is good. It’s a good one, a happy one. But I can understand why you wouldn’t bother telling me.”

“Oh? Now I’m getting interested. Lay it on me,” smiled Beatrix gently.

Byleth addressed the group. “Trips...um, Lady Beatrix used to live on the edges of Garreg Mach. In the woods. She...wanted to help people, but she liked her privacy too. She wanted to be a doctor.”

Manuela swiveled her green-gold hair to face her colleague. “Oh? I thought you were a doctor?”

“Believe me, it’s been earned since then. I think I know what this is,” grinned Beatrix.

Byleth smiled back. “My dad brought me to her hut, because she had a reputation for curing diseases and helping midwives with hard births and the like. I think…” Byleth tilted her head again, and paused, then continued, “I was nine days old. The nuns at the monastery had been taking care of me. But people were worried, because I was a strange baby. I didn’t cry or fuss at all. I hardly reacted to anything. And the strangest thing was…”

“...you had no heartbeat,” finished Beatrix softly.

Manuela was looking back forth between the two in astonishment. “No heartbeat? I can’t believe it...dear, may I?” she inquired gently to Byleth, holding up a glowing hand.

Byleth shrugged and nodded permission, and Manuela closed her eyes and laid a gentle hand on the left side of her chest, moving it occasionally. She waited and listened for a long time, finally blinking her eyes open in astonishment. “Amazing…” the physician breathed. Laying her fingers to the side of Byleth’s neck, she said, “But you have a pulse! This should be impossible!”

“Like I said,” said Byleth with a shrug. “I was born strange. Dad wanted to know why. So he brought me to Trips.”

“Right, but there’s nothing new here kid,” sniffed Beatrix. “I know your dad and I have told you this story.”

Byleth smirked back. “But what you didn’t tell me...is that you had two patients to take care of that day. Not just one.”

Seteth was beginning to catch on as Lady Beatrix laughed outright. “Oh Goddess, that’s right! Jeralt stumbled into my house carrying you, reeking like a rotten whiskey barrel. He was so drunk I was amazed he didn’t drop you on the way there. I forced him to sleep it off while I took care of you in the meantime.”

“And then when he woke up Trips lit into him for how he was behaving,” snickered Byleth, then shook her head in honest admiration. “You never taught me _those_ insults and threats. I could have used them over the years. Anyway, long story short, is that my stepmom was less than impressed by meeting the Blade-Breaker for the first time.”

“Fascinating,” muttered Hanneman, writing furiously into his notepad over various chuckles. “Yet you were only an infant at the time. How exactly do you have a memory of this?”

Byleth’s features slowly turned stoic once more. “I had help,” she admitted quietly, looking at her stepmother as Seteth absorbed the proceedings. Something seemed to pass between the two women, but he was unsure as to what.

The Crest Scholar inched closer to Byleth, examining her from all angles as if she were a particularly exotic bug. “From your Crest? This might be an unprecedented discovery. A Saint Reborn...that might explain the perfect synaptic recall...do you have any other abilities that you have discovered recently? Aside from your immense talent at White Anima...I believe the Church will want to go into that in detail at some later time…” he muttered to himself.

“Um,” wilted Byleth under the ex-noble’s intense scrutiny. “Uh, well, I think I can tell what Crests people have. Sometimes they glow like little symbols around their heads. Or their hearts. I’ve just started seeing them recently. It’s distracting,” she finished in a mumble.

“Crest empathy?!” squealed Hanneman in delight, losing his monocle in his excitement. It swung about from its fine chain in his sheer excitement.

Beatrix and Catherine snorted almost in unison. Catherine finally replaced Thunderbrand on her back and folded her arms. “C’mon, Hanneman. Crest empathy isn’t that rare among the nobility. Even I have it.”

“But perhaps not this form of it!” Hanneman hastened to correct her. “Even you have to guess sometimes, isn’t that right? And while I, Lord Seteth, and Lady Beatrix know of Knight Byleth’s Crest...I believe you do not--! Unless you care to tell me now?” he challenged.

Not wanting to back down, Catherine examined Byleth for a long moment, even moving closer to her, looking at her from every angle. Then she sighed in exasperation. “Forget it. This is stupid.”

“Oh, please, Knight Catherine. Anything you can give me--!” Hanneman was nearly dancing in agitation.

The woman shook her dirty blonde mane. “No, you’re right. I don’t have any control over it. I can’t tell.” Exasperated, the Imperial ex-nobleman urged her to try harder.

Seteth was now interested himself, despite Hanneman’s pushy behavior. Crest Empathy was still an enigma to himself and his siblings. Only descendants of the original Crest bearers or recipients of Nabatean blood experienced anything like it, all strictly human in origin, and no Nabatean had ever experienced the like. Before their relationship had disintegrated completely after the war, Macuil had theorized that it was as if there was a whisper of Mother’s divine consciousness still in existence, expressed through the remains of their relatives or through the unnatural mix with their human beneficiaries. The discovery only made his half-mad brother even more jealously guard his own blood, refusing to give it to worthy souls in their decades-long war against the King of Liberation, even though it could have hastened their victory. Yet now on many levels, Seteth well understood his brother’s bitterness, and the desire to reject the world entirely after the death of his family.

The horrors of the Red Canyon, and the nearly endless century long war that followed, still haunted his dreams. As well as the sacrifices forced upon him as a result.

He shook himself from his reverie in time to see Hanneman’s cajoling upon Catherine had worked. Running a gauntlet through her hair, the knight said in a low tone, “This will sound crazy, so don’t laugh. But I feel as if Byleth has...all of them? I mean, she’s all over the place. I can’t get a fix on her.” She looked up at the Professors with uncertainty.

Hanneman was beside himself in glee, as the other women backed away from him. “All of them? Yes, yes! Oh, I must do an experiment in a controlled environment soon! Double-blind, of course, under strict third party supervision, screened participants, and we could set it up in my office…”

“Hanneman, you’re starting to embarrass yourself. I mean, even more so than usual when you’re like this,” sneered Manuela, waving the air in front of her nose. “Ugh. Such nonsense makes me glad I don’t have one of the damned things, and was born a completely normal person.”

“You don’t have a Crest?” said Byleth, tilting her head in perfect innocence. “But I can see it. It’s right there on your forehead,” she added to the startled Professor, pointing her bound hands at her face. Seteth covered his face in his hands.

“Byleth, kid, maybe that’s enough,” said Beatrix firmly, trying to prevent another misunderstanding. Too late.

“Now wait just a minute!” said Manuela hotly, glaring back at Seteth, her blonde-green hair flying wildly. “No, I want to hear this! Which Crest do I have, Byleth?!”

“Um...I don’t know. I just see it.”

“What does it look like, Knight Byleth?” said Hanneman at the same time, leaning forward avidly.

“Like, ah, a candlestick? With wings?” replied Byleth helplessly. “Or one of those three pronged trident-candle thingies? I can’t remember what they’re called. Candle-bears?”

“Candelabras, Byleth,” corrected Beatrix her stepdaughter fondly, reaching up to tussle her hair.

Flipping to a blank page, Hanneman quickly sketched out a design and showed it to Byleth. “Does it look like this?”

“That’s it!” said Byleth confidently. “It’s green, though.”

“Manuela! This is proof of my theories! I do believe Seteth’s transfusion has given you the Crest of Cichol!” bubbled the old Professor in joy to a shocked Manuela.

With a vicious oath, the physician started advancing furiously on Seteth, who was slowly backing away in contrition, but Hanneman managed to interpose himself between them. Gripping her firmly by the shoulders, he said excitedly, “My dear Manuela! My lovely singing colleague. If I might trouble you for a slight blood sample, and perhaps also a lock of your exotic new hair…”

Professor Manuela unceremoniously kneed her colleague in the crotch. Ignoring the wheezing, doubled-over Professor behind her, she kept advancing on Seteth until she had cornered him at the far end of the room. Soon they were harshly whispering in low tones, although Manuela’s normally dulcet voice was more of a growl.

“Huh. That’s one way to get Hanneman off your back,” said Catherine in professional admiration at the move. Beatrix shook her head in disgust at the antics but moved to assist Hanneman, holding the older man up.

“This is why I’m sorry,” whispered Byleth anxiously to the Knight. “I just seem to cause trouble by existing. I don’t want people to get into fights over me.”

Catherine grunted sourly at that and looked at the younger woman. “People get into fights over any damn excuse they want, Byleth. I would’ve thought you’d have been a mercenary long enough to see that.”

Byleth shook her head in the negative. “But those fights weren't over me. This is tearing apart my family. It almost tore apart the students I saved. I don’t want it to tear apart the Church. Or anything else. Like you and my dad earlier.”

Rubbing the back of her neck, Catherine looked away in chagrin. “Yeah, damn, already eating my own words here. Um...I just want to protect Lady Rhea. You know that, right? I don’t have the brains for this magic stuff, so it can freak me out.”

“Me too,” agreed Byleth softly, sadly.

Catherine was about to respond when the doors to Rhea’s study opened. Both Rhea and Jeralt looked drawn and haggard.

Jeralt wasted no time. Ignoring everyone else, he marched over to his daughter and gripped her firmly by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “Byleth. Do you want to stay here? Yes or no, kid.”

Byleth gazed up at her father in confusion, then glanced over his shoulderplates at Lady Rhea. The Archbishop sensed the unspoken question at once. “You have my blessing, child, if you wish to leave my service. There will be no objection, or pursuit, or punishment. Your life is your own.” The others in the room grew quiet and solemn as they waited for Byleth’s answer. Seteth focused briefly on Byleth, then once more settled his regard on Rhea. This submissive behavior was most unusual for her. But he suspected it was better to give his sister space and support, instead of demanding answers at this time. Instead he considered the ramifications of a reputed miracle happening after the Battle of Garreg Mach, and then the disappearance of the performer of said miracle. The faithful would be confused and frightened and doubtful, at a time when the Church most needed unity. He prayed, _Mother...if you are here...please give this child your guidance at this time. So much hinges upon this…_

Byleth closed her eyes and seemed to fall within herself. She made the curious head tilting motion once more, then her ocean-deep blue eyes opened.

“Yes, Father. I do.”

He nodded back and smiled, although it looked a bit sad. “All right. Let’s get these things off you, then.”

  
  


*

  
  


“Felix, you are walking too fastly. Your leg was just healed--”

“It feels fine. Stop nagging me.”

“If Ingrid is departing, you will need to ride the nag,” said Petra firmly, keeping his pace.

Edelgard followed two strides behind the couple in the hallway of the Knights’ quarters, a white glove hiding her smile as she listened to the continuing argument. Whatever had happened to these two on the battlefield yesterday was already causing them to bicker like an old married couple. She still was not certain if she approved of the match, but watching their personalities clash was entirely worth it for the time being. She almost tilted her head behind her to make a wry observation to Hubert, but then she remembered, suddenly, that her retainer was not by her side. Instead he was on an emergency mission. A vital one.

Although Petra had rejoined them shortly in the dining hall for breakfast, the overwhelmed staff of the monastery could not serve them, as well as the hundreds of other refugees, in a timely manner. Hating the thought of any idleness, Edelgard managed to find a nearby harried Sister of Cethleann who managed to heal Felix’ knee and Petra’s arm to completion. They saw an exhausted but cheerful Raphael, still helpfully moving boxes of supplies and patients about, insisting he did not feel tired, or even hungry. After their fast, Edelgard noted with some surprise that Ferdinand was also out amongst the wounded, quietly and earnestly helping the Knights and nuns with any assistance he could provide. Perhaps his claims to a spiritual awakening were true and not another attempt of self-aggrandizement. That might prove...difficult...for her future plans.

She managed to see a glimpse of Leonie, along with Casper, the two of them carrying trays of porridge to deliver to their exhausted fellow students who still might be in their dormitory rooms. Edelgard nodded gladly at the sight, and she made sure to speak an approving word to both of them, thanking them for their selflessness. Bernadetta, Dorothea, and Lindhart would doubtlessly need encouragement to eat, along with Lysithea and Marianne, and possibly Ashe and Mercedes as well. One night’s rest could not undo the horrors of battle completely for many of them, and it was important that everyone received a sense of normalcy and routine. Once again, Edelgard’s thoughts turned bitter, angry at her “Lord Uncle’s” machinations. What was the man thinking with this foolish move? The Central Church would be doubly on guard now, and the Officer’s Academy semester was disrupted, possibly permanently. The remains of the Nabateans and Crest Stones guarded in the endless ossuaries and crypts below Garreg Mach would be near impossible to retrieve in light of this attack.

“Sylvain,” sneered Felix suddenly in the hallway, pulling the Adrestian Princess from her thoughts. “What are you doing up so early?”

“It is nearly noontime?” said Petra in a confused voice, looking between the two old friends.

“Heh, good one Felix,” snickered the tall redhead, holding a tray with several empty bowls. “Just trying to do the Goddess’ work, you know me. Was bringing breakfast to everyone in Dimitri’s room.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” scoffed the Fraldarius noble, but he seemed nervous suddenly, looking away to examine the stone wall, as if an ornate puzzle caught his eye. “How is he?” he finally asked, still not looking at his friend.

“Sound asleep and not breaking anything!” said Sylvain in a cheerful manner that was clearly forced. “But I think they’ll try to wake him up soon. How’s your knee?”

Without missing a beat, Felix kicked Sylvain in the shin with his left boot.

Leaning hard against a door and wincing while trying to not drop the tray, Sylvain coughed and muttered, “Ouch. All healed up, I see.”

“Is he located further down the hall?” demanded Edelgard, already tired of the byplay.

“Yep, just a little further, Princess” said Sylvain, moving with a distinct limp past them. “Look for the hundred or so Knights and monks guarding the door. Can’t miss it. See you around, Felix. Petra, you’re a brave woman,” the nobleman called over his shoulder.

Petra turned a beaming face to a steaming Felix. “Did you hear? I have already won the accolades! Soon all will know of the Pride of Brigid!” she grinned, flexing the bicep on her recently healed arm.

“Whatever,” said Felix, shaking his head, but with a small smile that Edelgard could easily see. She knew Petra would as well. “Let’s go.”

Like Sylvain had informed them, they easily found the room where Dimitri currently slept, one near the end of the hallway that belonged to an unfortunate slain Knight. Knights of Seiros in full plate armor stood guard, a full two squads armed with stout batons and loops of coiled, heavy rope secured to their belts. A Knight-Lieutenant squinted suspiciously at Petra, but nodded easily enough to Duke Fraldarius’ son and the Princess of Adrestia. “My Lord. My Ladies. The Prince is resting within, but already has visitors at the moment…”

Edelgard was poised to intercede with diplomacy, but Felix said in a quiet, tense voice, “Step aside. No one is preventing me from checking the health of my future King. Not even the Knights of Seiros. Whoever’s in there can deal.”

Some of the Knights grumbled at the young upstart noble’s words, but the door opened behind them and Edelgard was surprised to see the blonde head of Catherine peek out. “Felix. There you are. Come on in,” the Holy Knight said in a low voice.

Given the Holy Knight’s invitation, there wasn’t much for the red faced younger Knights to do except step aside.

The student trio filtered quietly into the crowded room. More Knights lined the walls, sweating nervously under their armor in the Garland Moon heat. In the center of the room was a table full of medical instruments and pitchers of clean water. Dimitri lay upon the single large bed against the far wall, a white sterile sheet covering his body with his wrists and feet bound to the bed posters, which Edelgard noted had been hastily reinforced. Even the bed posts themselves were anchored to the floor with heavy loose blocks of stone from the battle.

Dedue stood firmly at the foot of the bed like a monolith, his axe traded for a large blunted mace with a steel head as large as a watermelon. The retainer’s dark eyes shone with fatigue and stress, yet his back was straight and his carriage firm as he stood in vigil over his lord. Edelgard noted with a start that Bernadetta was in the corner of the room, sitting on a cot with her arms around the quiet hunched figure of Marianne, whose teal hair was unbraided and undone, hiding her face like a veil. Like Petra and Felix, they had not found the time to change clothing since yesterday, unlike the glittering and floral figure that stood guard over them. Hilda Valentine Goneril stood guard nearby, bouncing a wickedly sharp axe nervously on her shoulder, watching the still form of Dimitri with a scowl, her pink eyes hawk-like for any twitch of movement. Unlike Dedue, it was unclear if she would hold back from using deadly force if Dimitri posed any threat to Marianne or Bernadetta. Catherine moved by her side, speaking to the short noblewoman softly, the faintly glowing Relic on her back casting second shadows across the sunlit room.

That left the two doctors leaning over the bed, their backs to the door. Edelgard frowned slightly at the two figures; Lady Beatrix was immediately recognizable by her omnipresent white staff, but the other was dressed in tight-fitting black clothing, cut off at the elbows and thighs, that left little to the imagination. Shapely curves sharply contrasted with powerfully flexing muscles, and soon the Princess was forced to look away before she was caught staring by Hilda or Petra.

“Edelgard?”

The Princess turned back in shock at the voice.

Byleth stared back at her, dressed in the black outfit. She had missed the dark blue hair. Then Edelgard’s face turned as red as her stockings at her previous thoughts. To her discomfiture, she suddenly realized she had never seen the ex-mercenary without either armor or loose fitting robes. The stuffy air of the deceased Knight’s bedroom became magnified tenfold in her mind.

“Knight Byleth,” she slowly choked out, hoping she gave what would at least appear like a regal nod.

Those ocean-blue azure orbs on the Knight’s face were wide and all-encompassing, and Edelgard found herself drowning in them. Drowning, and not caring in the slightest. Byleth turned to face her fully, her own lips parted slightly and a low flush starting to climb her neck. Then her eyes flicked towards the shorter form of her stepmother beside her and she hastily dipped into a full bow. “I am pleased to see you so well, Your Imperial Highness,” the Knight stammered. “I thought you had…”

“Well, she’s not,” Felix cut in rudely, stepping between them and spoiling the moment. “How’s the boar?”

“Still in a magically induced coma,” said Beatrix, leaning hard on her staff. Clearly, the healer had not slept the night. She nodded to the young Blue Lion. “You can check on him if you’d like. He’s physically all healed up. Mentally…” the woman shrugged.

“He’ll just break the frame,” said Felix dismissively, but moved closer to Dimitri anyway, absorbed in his scrutiny. Petra, sensing that Felix was more irritable than usual, lithely twisted through the crowd to check on her other classmates.

Edelgard moved a slight step behind Felix, behind him to his left to examine Dimitri’s sleeping face, coincidentally bringing her closer to Byleth. The older woman was giving her an uncertain smile, clearly nervous in her presence. She kept shifting her weight on either foot, a far cry from her normal stoic facade from days past. Edelgard felt the same nervous energy she was expressing, but had far more practice in concealing it, absorbed in her scrutiny of her stepbrother.

Dimitri was indeed asleep, and with his unruly blonde hair tied away from his face, Edelgard was struck at how much of the boy she once knew still appeared to be in this scarred seventeen year old’s body. The sheet came up to Dimitri’s chest, but Edelgard could see rough long scars and the mismatched patches of burned skin running about his shoulders and certainly down his back. But the arms and hands demanded her attention the most. The muscles were barely visible under the twisted rough masses of scar tissue, the joints and even individual fingers almost unrecognizable. And this was the best result of the finest healing magic the Kingdom of Faerghus had to offer after the Tragedy of Duscar. For his arms to be so burned...Dimitri must have plunged his hands into the searing flames themselves, hoping to save someone...anyone…but despite mutilating himself and nearly dying from the effort, he had been unable to do so.

And then he had seen Lonato do something very similar to herself. And Dimitri had gone berserk, for her sake, in her name.

A wave of bitter empathy coiled around Edelgard’s heart. They both had their scars, and while Dimitri’s psyche had obviously fragmented under the strain of his trauma, Edelgard had always taken dark pride in forging herself into something that would change the world for the better, to ensure no experiments on children would ever happen again. But could she really take advantage of such a broken person in the future? Simply because it was expedient for her own ends? What did that make her, the tortured child who had vowed a bloody oath on the bodies of her ten siblings and other innocents? An insidious shame filled her being as she considered how much she was turning into something like her “uncle.”

_Am I becoming just like_ **_them_ ** _? A thing of darkness, savoring filth right next them?_

Lady Beatrix was saying something to Felix, explaining in detail the plans for the Prince’s recovery, but Edelgard found herself glancing back at the sorrowful form of Lady Marianne on the cot, her face buried in her hands, her thin shoulders shaking and folding in on themselves like a beaten animal. The tales and whispers of the young Golden Deer’s bravery had reached her this morning. She had emerged from her suicidal depression and had risked herself in battle and before Dimitri’s blind wrath to attempt to heal him, and now Edelgard was working behind her back to ostracize her and isolate her even further, using the stupidity and prejudices of the masses as a weapon, a bludgeon against the Church. The shame of her crimes was magnified as she watched her classmates. Petra was on her knees on the floor, whispering assurances to the Golden Deer, while Bernadetta was gently rubbing the taller girl’s shoulders. Hilda’s watchful eyes met her own, the pink haired girl’s expression no longer facetious or trite, but something staunch and dangerous as she gripped her axe in her powerful hands.

_What have I done? I didn’t see a person there. I just saw a Crest, waiting to be exploited…against the Church...just like them..._

“Are you okay?” whispered Byleth next to her ear.

“Yes. I’m just...sad,” responded Edelgard in a similar tone, turning back before Dimitri. She couldn’t look at Byleth, didn’t deserve to look at Byleth. The room seemed abruptly unbearably stuffy and hot, her uniform binding her breathing. Was that all she was? A weapon, a tool, simply fulfilling its title, its function? Was nothing she did by her own choices, her own autonomous decisions? Edelgard felt a growing sense of horror as she considered the convergence within this very room.

_Are all of us merely acting out our predetermined roles by others?_

Thus Byleth was a Saint, and Edelgard was the Flame Emperor. Dimitri was the Mad Prince of Faerghus, Lady Marianne was a Child of the Beast, Felix was the Shield of Faerghus, and Rhea was a Child of the Goddess, the Immaculate One, _and the Goddess had healed me, Edelgard von Hresvelg, just as I was about to crush any last trace of her Church_ …

Edelgard could not find her breath. She abruptly felt sweaty and confused. The room swam before her vision, and her knees felt weak.

Concern. “Your Highness?”

Snide. “What’s her problem?”

Worry. “Trips, I’m taking her next door to my room. She needs some air.”

Anxiety. “Lady Edelgard?”

“Petra, can you help me?”

“Of course, Knight Byleth…”

Edelgard blanked for a moment, the world a sensory morass of color and sound that could not and would not make comprehensible sense. There was a vague awareness of arms holding her and moving past equally hot and sweaty bodies. There were doors opening and closing. She then felt herself pushed down, sitting on something soft, and gradually she felt something wet and cool on her brow, something real she could focus on, while a gentle hand raised a cup to her lips.

Byleth’s voice was soft as she held a moist towel on her forehead. “Here. Just take a small sip. To help you breathe.” Edelgard obediently drank some of the tepid water, swallowed, then gasped for air as if she had just fought in a three day battle. Petra’s strong fingers were rubbing her shoulders gently, and Edelgard felt some of her tension leave her in increments, her turgid muscles spasming as they eased.

“Lady Edelgard, your neck is as to rocks,” Petra grunted quietly, leaning in with her thumbs against the stubborn knots as she knelt behind her on Byleth’s bed. Slowly, the world was making sense for her once more. “I am sure you are worried for your brother Prince. His actions caused me worry too.”

Her breathing calmed enough to realize Byleth had set the towel aside and was holding her hand, with one large rough hand squeezing her shoulder. She twitched at the realization, in the beginnings of attempting to jerk away, but Byleth’s hands only gripped her tighter.

Perhaps...perhaps it was better to make a show of relaxation. Edelgard leaned her head against Byleth’s shoulder, not caring if it would mess up her hair, enjoying Petra’s attempted massage for a little longer, then said quietly, “Thank you Petra. Maybe...we could visit the sauna later. I believe that’s just what we both need.” Petra’s voice rang out a loud and enthusiastic assent. “I apologize to both of you. I don’t know what came over me,” she lied through her teeth.

Stepping off the bed from behind her, Petra smiled gently at both her and Byleth, braid swaying and her hunter sharp eyes missing nothing. “It is nothing, Edelgard. The moments of battle can strike a warrior with little warning. You have done yourself and us no dishonor.” She bowed to them both. “I will go and make certain Felix is behaving,” she said, then she quietly left the room.

Edelgard stayed still for a moment longer, wondering what Byleth would say, or do, now it was just the two of them. She had revealed much to her after the mock battle, but while the Knight had trained with her often or had given seminars for the classes since then, they had not been alone together for more than six weeks. But even as the minutes passed and sounds of monastery life continued past the door, the Knight said nothing, mentioned nothing about the momentous events or awkward barriers between them. Instead, Byleth’s hand dipped from her shoulder to her back, gently rubbing circles between her shoulder blades that quickly almost had the Princess humming in contentment, while her thumb caressed the back of her glove. Edelgard found her breathing slowing, becoming almost as even and steady as sleep, even as her brain buzzed in wonderment and agitation. But her body had ideas of its own, gladly taking this opportunity to relax and relieve its tension.

Byleth’s head leaned gently against her own, and for long moments, Edelgard almost forgot where she was, or what she was. Nothing would make her happier for this idle, quiet moment to stretch out forever into infinity. Here, in Byleth’s room, there were no conspiracies, no paranoid schemes, no planned wars or secret coups, no assassination plots or political intrigue.

But there was the forbidden knowledge of the Church and the ancient tendrils of inherited power…

Reluctantly, Edelgard stirred eventually, carefully extracting herself from Byleth’s embrace to face her fully. Expecting the familiar blank mask of unemotion, she was instead shocked to see a tender and soft expression she had not anticipated ever seeing on her friend’s face. Clearly, she was feeling more than ever. Another stab of shame went through Edelgard’s heart as she considered her previous manipulations. She owed this strange mercenary her life, multiple times over now. Yet she still could not fully trust her...

Then one blue eyebrow arched sharply at her and Byleth’s face took an impish cast. “Please don’t tell Hubert. I’d like to do this again, sometime.”

The laugh bubbled out of Edelgard’s chest before she could prevent it. “Oh, goodness, you have my word! He’d never let me out of his sight again, and frankly, he can be a bit of a bother at times.”

Byleth blew out a long breath and quickly looked back at the door, as if a frowning, angry stormcloud of a Hubert was about to burst through. “He does make me nervous at times; not that I’m afraid of him, but I’m afraid he’ll decide I’m a bad influence on you or something. I don’t know how to make him happy.”

“I fear Hubert was born unhappy,” said Edelgard lightly, wanting to shift the conversation away from her retainer and any memory of his jealous possessiveness. “I am more concerned about you. Wild rumours have been circulating the halls since yesterday.”

Byleth’s shoulders hunched forward slightly as she looked away, but she still gripped Edelgard’s hand.. “What do they say? That I’m the worst Commander in the history of the Knights? That I’m some freakish monster who uses witchcraft to raise the dead?”

“Nothing of the sort!” replied Edelgard hotly, feeling strange at the circumstances. But even an impartial observer would praise Byleth’s military acumen. “The people speak only of your heroic interventions and your...abilities. Without your timely warning, the monastery would have surely suffered more, and many more would be dead. Including myself,” she said earnestly, then decided to take the gambit. “There are even whispers that you have a--”

“A Crest,” mumbled Byleth, finishing her thought but not looking at her, her scarred hands picking at her bed covers. “Like I told you. A freak.”

Edelgard almost rocked backwards in her shock. Nearly every commoner in Fódlan would be delighted beyond measure to know they possessed a Crest. Yet another fascinating, and endless contradiction in this mercenary turned Knight. But from her previous knowledge of Byleth’s character, this now made sense. Byleth had believed she had done everything on her own merit, through her own ability. To know that she possessed noble blood that had given her an overwhelming advantage against other commoners must have come as a jarring surprise. After careful thought, and remembering Lindhart’s advice, Edelgard asked much more gently than she had intended earlier, “Do you know which one it is, Byleth?”

“No,” the Knight bit off, her voice honest and sincere, still not facing her fully. “I think my folks do. And Hanneman and Rhea and Seteth. But they’re the only ones. They’re keeping it a big secret. Catherine and my dad almost got into a fight over it this morning. And Catherine said she couldn’t sense which one I had.”

 _Catherine has Crest empathy as well?_ Edelgard’s mind reeled at this revelation. She filed _that_ tidbit away for future consideration and moved closer to Byleth, setting another white glove on her friend’s hand. She wanted to know. She needed to know. Because Byleth was her friend and...for other reasons.

“Tell me about it,” the Princess said quietly. “If you want to.”

Slowly, in pauses and half-sentences, Byleth did. She told Edelgard of the events of this morning, where everyone was alarmed by her strange behavior (although she did not elaborate on this), and brought her bound in ropes before Lady Rhea. Then Rhea and Jeralt locked themselves in her study, while Byleth tried to apologize to the group but ended up showing off her new, unwanted abilities: the ability to know secrets from others, as well as her newfound ability to see Crests. She recounted Hanneman’s excitement and Manuela’s anger. Then finally, Catherine’s pronouncement she had every Crest and none. By the end of it, a gnawing sensation had settled within Edelgard’s mind and gut, her quiet agitation returning at the ramifications.

“You said...you said you can sense Crests now? In others?” she whispered to the Knight, almost numb to the disturbing revelations laid bare before her.

“No. I can see them,” responded Byleth in the same voice. Her cobalt eyes glanced over to Edelgard, then flickered away just as quick.

“Which Crest do I have?” demanded Edelgard, her voice rising higher.

“Um…Seiros. It’s blue. That’s all. Really.” A blad lie. For all of her newfound emotive expressions, disingenuous behavior was beyond Byleth.

Edelgard forced herself to become more exacting. “Byleth, look at me, and tell me,” she ordered imperiously, then softened her demand. “Please. I insist.”

Now she saw another new expression on Byleth’s face, raw panic. “Don’t...don’t make me, Edelgard,” said Byleth, her face twisting in anguish and her own tone getting higher. “I just make people sad or angry when I tell them stuff. I don’t want to know these things. Or see them. I shouldn’t be able to. It’s not fair and it’s not right. I don’t want these powers. I don’t want to be special!” she cried out in protest.

 _She knows. She can see it._ Unable to conceal her agitation, Edelgard let go of the woman’s hand, standing up quickly and tried to focus on her breathing as she looked away as she hugged herself. Byleth’s words struck a chord in her. They were the similar protests of a twelve year old girl to a fifteen year old Hubert, the girl who emerged from the dark and the pain to see a stranger in the mirror, wreathed in strength and scars and brittle white hair. Brown-haired eleven year old El had been taken into the dungeons with her brothers and sisters; the preteen Flame Emperor was the object that emerged in her place. The only difference was that Byleth had not suffered to the same degree for her powers, but then Edelgard thought again. Her mother reportedly died in childbirth. Byleth had felt no emotions until her powers began to emerge. Who was she to hold her own suffering in higher regard than any other’s?

Her analytical mind warred with her passionate heart, but in the end, the cool, clinical regard of the Flame Emperor asserted itself. She turned to face Byleth, her face composed. “You see both of them, do you not?”

The Knight of Seiros sat still on the bed for a long moment. Then, mutely, Byleth nodded up at her, her confusion and dread palatable.

 _Then why can’t I sense yours?_ thought Edelgard in frustration, brushing split-ends from her face. She considered briefly, then said quietly, “It is my most guarded secret. I will trust you to treasure it.”

Byleth’s posture relaxed in gratitude as she nodded up firmly at her, showing relief. “I will. I swear it. On my life,” she instantly replied, her hand on her heart.

A knock on the door.

Byleth rose, and waited for Edelgard to nod her permission. The Black Eagle was pleased with one aspect of Byleth’s recent changes; for whatever reason, she had become far more sensitive to nuances. Whatever power lurking within her was changing her friend almost by the hour. That alone engendered awed respect, and prudent caution. Edelgard again tried to focus on what lost Crest it could possibly be as Byleth said loudly, “Come in.”

Lady Beatrix cautiously poked her short teal haired head inside the door. “Hey kid. Rhea and Seteth are here. You ready?”

Byleth audibly swallowed next to her, her fingers and palms clenching and unclenching in rhythm. “Do I have to?” she asked in a whisper.

The Knight-healer opened the door a little wider and slipped through, her blood stained robes gathered about her. Closing it behind her lightly, she turned to the Princess, and said not unkindly, “Mind if I talk to her? I may need to give her a pep talk.”

The Princess was about to readily agree when Byleth interjected, “No. I want Edelgard here. You can say whatever you want with her by my side. She’s my friend.”

It was hard to say who was more surprised between the two, but Lady Beatrix quickly recovered, her steel blue eyes flickering to Edelgard then back again. “Fine, fine, kid, no big deal. We’ll need Your Imperial Highness in there anyway, to show Prince Dimitri you’re still alive. We’re hoping that will put him in a good enough mood for Byleth to attempt the impossible,” the healer finished, making a face.

“The impossible?” repeated Edelgard curiously, looking back to Byleth.

She felt Byleth grow still beside her. The taller woman faced her fully, her features clouded and uncertain. The azure eyes flickered uneasily to the door as she rubbed her arms. “That’s what they want me to try to do. To heal Dimitri.”

  
  


*

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So something I've been smacking my head at recently...all the Ashen wolves, aside from Hapi, are graduates from Garreg Mach. Baltie predates Catherine and Shamir, but not Seteth. Yuri attended during 1178, and Constance 1179. That means Catherine should have at the very least recognized Yuri in previous chapters, especially since Yuri was a Blue Lion.
> 
> I guess it's a point of pride you have to go ret-con your own fics? Gah.
> 
> Anyway! I had more in the pipeline, but it wasn't meshing well with the rest, and...here's 14k words? Yay? lol. 
> 
> AMX_004_Quebely is to blame for any and all rat scenarios.
> 
> You know, I drag on people who stick to only canon, but now I see why. This crap is hard! Where should I go find a beta-bear? I will return the favor!


	32. Darkness and Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth attempts to heal Dimitri with Sothis' aid.
> 
> Hubert checks on Jeritza's whereabouts and makes a horrifying discovery.
> 
> The students do their best to regain a sense of normalcy.
> 
> Yuri brings Constance to the monastery and makes a demand.
> 
> Claude helps a team investigate Lonato's strange Relic.
> 
> Sylvain's not leaving the Academy without one last party. 
> 
> Ingrid finally feels able to admit what she wants.
> 
> Hapi focuses on survival.
> 
> Edelgard learns about Hapi, and what this possibly means for the Empire.
> 
> Ingrid and Dorothea say good-bye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dusts off fic* Hey y'all! Back in the saddle again!
> 
> Part of the reason for the delay is that I hit the writer's block wall at 100 mph. Then the semester started. And...stuff's stressful, ya dig?
> 
> So, as an apology, here is a 16k monster of a chapter. Already working on the next!
> 
> Finally, my apologies and fair warning, but there is some fairly horrible stuff in here. I'm not trying to press squick buttons, but to convey how much the Agarthans suck by turning up the villain knob to 11. I'm not really dwelling on it, just describing it in passing.
> 
> Anyways, onwards Nabatean soldiers!
> 
> CN/TW: Graphic description of burn wounds, humiliation, torture, abuse, implied rape, (separate) dubious consent

Ch. 32

Darkness and Light

  
  


A Darkness devours,

And Light shines to banish Dark.

So Shadow’d hearts wait.

\--

Byleth

* * *

The flames.

Whenever he closed his eyes, all he saw were flames. They consumed everything. Flesh, bone, armor. The stench of burnt hair and clothing. Then came the reek of cooking meat. His young, innocent mind had idly compared it to roast pork before he was violently sick, his stomach heaving against cloying scents swirling around him.

His father went down screaming, his legendary Blaiddyd strength helpless against the laws of physics, the simple rules of temperature and combustibility. There was no rallying of the Royal Guard, no final stands, no poetic last words, no defiant shouts before noble and heroic deaths. The flames spread from horse to horse, from body to body, relentless in its advance and insatiable in its hunger. The flower of Faerghus Knighthood fell clutching their weapons, unable to release the superheated metal before it had already fused to their hands, their gaping mouths silent as toy soldiers and just as effective. The very air was a dull shimmer, a toxic kiss that stole words and life from lungs with equal harshness.

Knight Glenn Fraldarius, his childhood playmate, stumbled past him, moving a charred, roasted appendage to shove him away from the worst of the fire. Dimitri wept to see his friend so wounded, horrified by the blisters and the burns and the _smell, it smells like burning meat_ _from the ovens in the kitchens_ and he was shocked that Glenn could even stand, realizing the pain must have been horrible for him. Glenn’s golden eyes were simply confused, as if he had forgotten something very important he wanted to say, giving his Prince, his brother, one final shove before collapsing. Dimitri called his name, but Glenn didn’t answer and didn’t get up again and didn’t breathe anymore and Dimitri screamed and screamed, even as his own hands started searing as he clutched his brother’s armor, while his own hair was beginning to shrivel and burn…

His mother’s carriage collapsed in on itself in a flash of sparkling embers. Dimitri clutched Glenn’s body childishly, helplessly, because there was nothing else to be done. The heat and fire were everywhere, and it hurt at first, but then it was just...there. The body eventually surrendered to the mute onslaught of inevitability, the entropy of fire and smoke and the _stench of his flesh_ giving his mind a brief moment of confused disorientation before the final oblivion.

“Your Highness!”

Gustav’s voice. That’s how this dream always ended. With Gustav reaching down, his absurdly cool gauntlets peeling his flame swollen fingers from Glenn’s corpse, leaving shreds of his skin on the body. He strains against the knight, praying for one last glimpse of his father and mother’s corpses, but then he sees all of them turning to ashes in the wind, with nothing left to bury, not even armor or jewelry. The flames had even taken those, turning them into blackened streams of liquid metal.

Everything was burning. His Father, his Mother, his friends, his world, himself. And it would go on like this forever...

“Oh dear. You’re quite stuck, aren’t you?”

Prince Dimitri lifted blood-shot blue eyes to see a young girl. A floating young girl, he noted warily. With a floating mass of green hair that dwarfed even Flyan’s locks, with two bright red and white braids framing her face. As she drifted around him, the screams and pain and burning somehow faded into a grey monochrome blur in the background. Gustav stood frozen, his mouth set in stern lines with anguished blue eyes set against his red and silver hair. Dimitri trembled on the ground as the girl looked around them, seemingly unperturbed by the death and destruction. “A terrible memory. Yet a most cherished one,” she said slowly, absorbing every detail, before glowing green eyes swung back to him.

Dimitri felt only confusion, disturbed by this new track of his dreams. This was...new. He couldn’t remember this happening before. Gustav’s flight with his burned body on horseback through Duscar usually happened next. His semi-comatose flight through Faerghus, the cold winds of his home stinging his burnt and reeking flesh. But this girl was disturbing his dream. “Cherished?” he rasped out through a throat dry with smoke and screaming. That too, seemed to fade away, the terrible sting of his burned skin and the horrid stenches dissipating inchmeal into a cool numbness.

“Yes,” said the apparition, her bare feet settling to the ground through a wind he could not feel, her robes and braids falling slowly around her form. Her shining eyes held him motionless as she approached his prostrate form. “This is a terrible thing that has happened to you. Yet you accept responsibility and blame for it, even though you were a child.”

“I’m not a child,” snapped Dimitri at the girl, suddenly hating the intrusion, the dissonant voice ruining his memories. Standing tall even at thirteen, he rose above the child. “I am a Prince. A Prince of Faerghus. And now, one day...I will be King.”

A grim smile from the small figure. “A King of what?

Dimitri grated a harsh laugh. “A King that pays back his debts! That honors his blood!” he yelled.

“There’s no need to shout,” the ghostly girl snapped back. “It’s just the three of us, here. No one else.”

“Three?” scowled an uncomprehending Dimitri, turning around.

Byleth stood before him, dressed in black, her sapphire eyes wide and imploring.

Dimitri’s anger faded into bleakness as he saw the dead Knight. “So...you are here to torment me as well. You must have fallen in battle against Lonato, along with Edelgard and your father.”

Stepping closer through monochrome greyness, Byleth shook her deep blue hair. “We’re alive, Dimitri. I managed to heal them in time. But you...you lost yourself, after Edelgard fell. Do you remember?”

The young Dimitri flinched away. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Byleth asked, confused by the rejection. “I’m just here to help you.”

“Don’t give me hope,” muttered the Prince, tears streaming from his eyes. “It always ends this way. My family always dies. _Always._ And now you’re dead, too, here to torment and mock me for my failures.” Dimitri looked around himself, studying the scenery before him. “This is the Eternal Flames, isn’t it? It’s where I knew my path would end. Where I belong for failing to avenge any of them.”

An indignant squeal. “Whaaat?! The Eternal Flames? What a ridiculous concept! Do you think I have nothing better to do with my time than to toss children’s souls into hellfire?” huffed the ghost child behind him.

“Sothis…?” started the Knight.

Dimitri blanched at the name, the implications. “Sothis is here, isn’t she? Has she judged me, found my soul unworthy? I knew it! I knew that would be my fate. I am damned! For all eternity!” he screamed, his multitude of sins overwhelming him. 

“I most certainly have _not_!” said the ghost, passing through him to turn and float alongside Byleth, huffing and folding its arms. “We’re trying to help you, you foolish boy!”

“What should we do? How can I heal him?” pleaded Byleth to the strange and exotic figure.

Slowly backing away from the two apparitions, the teen Dimitri regarded them with fear and revulsion. “This is all...a torment...the first of many. Isn’t it? I failed my father, my Knights, my people. And you will make me suffer my failures again and again, forever and ever. Won’t you? Won’t you?!” he ended with a scream.

“Phooey! This is _your_ mind, little Prince. We are merely visitors. Whatever torments you are suffering, whatever failures you are inflicting upon yourself, they are all _your_ _own_ doing,” said the ghost, wagging her red braids at him.

“Dimitri, let me heal you. Please. Let me at least try,” begged Byleth, raising a shining white hand.

He shrank back from her touch, afraid of more suffering. “There is nothing to heal. The dead need no healing. There is no succor left for them. Or for me,” said the Prince in a broken voice, his face twisting in anguish. The frozen world around them shook and trembled, forcing Byleth to plant her feet to maintain her balance. The green haired ghost simply sighed beside her.

Regaining her equilibrium, Byleth tried again. “You’re alive, Dimitri. Every student at the Academy survived the battle. Felix is here with me, and Marianne, and Dedue and Princess Edelgard. They want to see you, but you need to let me help you. I believe I can do it, if you simply let me try.” 

“No!” sobbed Dimitri, backing away from them even further. “I remember what I did. They all must be dead...I killed Dedue, and then Felix, and even Princess Petra. And I saw...her. Marianne’s dead spirit must have tried to intercede on my behalf, but the Goddess denied her petition.”

“This is ridiculous,” groaned the ghost in a childlike whine. “Tell me that not everyone in Faerghus believes such rubbish! For my sake!”

The dreamscape shuddered again, more ominously. The Prince was quickly working himself into a hysterical frenzy, and the surrounding memory rocked and thundered in time with his own heaving sobs.

“Hmm. He is becoming agitated and out of sorts. I fear we must leave soon,” observed the girl, resuming her floating.

Stubbornly ignoring her fellow traveler, Byleth forged ahead through the quaking vision, even as Dimitri tried to flee from her. She ignored the frozen sights and corpses around her as best she could, trying to catch the Prince but giving him a wide space. She spoke slowly and methodically, saying, “Dimitri. Don’t you know me? I’m Byleth. The Knight of Seiros. I’m your friend. I've helped save you before. Remember? Please stop running, I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Dimitri turned a tear streaked face to her, the faded frozen flames all around him now. “Another lie! Another sign of your damned intent! You are both demons! Torturing me with false promises, false hope!” He lifted his face to the sky of his dream. “Father...Mother...Glenn...you must be here, suffering with me. And Edelgard! Please help me! Protect me! Save me!” begged the youthful Dimitri.

Byleth dropped her hands, amazed to see new figures materializing in front of the boy Prince. King Lambert appeared before her, twelve feet tall and dressed in magnificent, shining plate, wearing a high crown and wielding an oversized Areadbhar like a toy in one massive armored fist. A giant woman who looked remarkably like an older version of Edelgard with rich auburn hair stood by the King’s side, dressed in the robes of a Gremory. A large version of Felix with a thin goatee in light chain armor appeared near the side, two long curved swords twirling lightly in his hands. Most remarkable of all was a strange, ten foot tall version of Edelgard herself, her hair alternating between a mix of brown and white locks, dressed in a charming, dazzling red ball gown but incongruously wielding a large axe.

“Sothis! What’s happening?” asked Byleth in alarm.

“His mind is rejecting us,” the Goddess said sadly, floating beside her, watching where the figures loomed protectively over the Prince as he sobbed pitifully in their midst. “His fear and pain is too great; it is also too familiar, too comfortable for him. He believes that there is no concept of healing, or peace, or love that is acceptable to him.” The Goddess sighed again deeply. “And he yearns for an escape from his memories and his responsibilities, because deep in his heart he believes he will never achieve them.”

Byleth took a cautious step towards the Prince, but the massive, larger than life giant defenders raised their weapons or brightly glowing hands in response. Quickly retreating back, struggling with the sense of failure and trying to parse the Goddess’ words, she wondered, “He’s...afraid? Of what? Me? You?”

“Not us specifically. He’s afraid of himself. He’s afraid of his future. This leads to anger that he is unequal to his imposed burdens. Then to self-loathing. He believes he is unworthy of life itself, when so many around him died. These manifestations are symbols of his guilt and despair, and as you can see, they appear to be very strong and very powerful in his own mind.”

The Knight shook her head defiantly at the Goddess. “There must be something we can do!”

Sothis gently shook her head . “I warned you, my powers are limited here, as was my intent so long ago. I cannot override his free will or make his choices for him...well, although, that’s not quite true. I _could_ , but there would be nothing left of the poor child’s brain afterwards. Merely a mindless husk. Memories and Time are linked, and if I erase the latter, the former will cease with it. You should know this.”

Byleth’s brow furrowed as she tried to follow the reasoning. “Then why can I remember the things I’ve changed with Time, except my name?”

“Because you are also _me_ , foolish child. We both can stand independently outside of Time’s flow and survive. We are both Witnesses. But I have had tens of thousands of years to develop and guard my identity, my sense of self. You have had all of twenty-one years and nine moons. It is quite easy to lose one’s place in Infinity, as you have carelessly done before.” Seeing her host becoming dejected, Sothis laid her hand on Byleth’s shoulder. “Let us be gone. For the moment, we have accomplished all that we can. You will need to consult your elders on how best to proceed to free him from his pain.”

* * *

Byleth’s eyes snapped open. The silver fire surrounding her hands, where they laid on Dimitri’s comatose brow at his bedside, flickered and went out.

She swayed on the altar pillow she had been kneeling upon by his bed, and would have fallen had not a thin strong arm dressed in red reached out to steady her. Edelgard, her lips pressed tight and her violet eyes concerned and sorrowful. She already knew from looking at her face.

“Well, my child? Were you able to heal the Prince?” asked Rhea anxiously from the back of the crowded room. Heads leaned forward in anticipation.

Byleth blinked and swallowed, wetting her mouth, looking futility at the silent form of the Prince. “He’s...he’s sad. He’s so sad he didn’t want to be healed,” she coughed, then continued in a stronger voice. “He thought I was a demon, sent to punish him for his sins. He thinks he’s dead, and the Tragedy is repeating itself, over and over, for all eternity. He believes he’s in Hell.”

She finished speaking, and then a loud sob tore from Marianne in the back of the room, before everyone in the room began talking at once, demanding more answers. Answers she didn’t have, Byleth thought in black despair and deep exhaustion.

“I knew it,” sneered Felix, shaking his head in what Byleth now knew was resignation. “What a pure waste of time.” He rudely pushed and shouldered his way out of the room.

Over the din, she heard Petra’s voice next to Edelgard. “Lady Edelgard…”

“Leave him be, Petra. I doubt he wants any company at this moment. Knight Beatrix? I believe she needs to rest…”

There was a brief moment of disorientation, then Trips’ voice sounded next to her ear. “Kid? Tell me you’re okay. Can you open your eyes?”

Byleth blinked her eyes open, not realizing she had closed them in a delirious torpor. Rubbing her eyes, she noticed the blurry and concerned face of her stepmom in front of hers. “How…? How long?” she asked.

“About three hours, Byleth. What _happened_? What did you do?” her stepmother asked in a concerned voice.

The Knight answered to both Trips and Edelgard. “I saw...inside Dimitri’s mind. He’s scared, but he also hates. He especially hates himself so much for being the only one left.” Despite herself, Byleth couldn’t help glance at the Princess as she said the words. Edelgard blanched at the implications, but her arm didn’t let go of Byleth.

Trips fortunately saw only the superficial connection. “Then we’ll have to wake him up at some point. Prove to him that Your Imperial Highness is alive and well and okay.”

“He still doesn’t know what’s real or not,” warned Byleth. She felt confident in assessing that much from the Prince’s mental state.

A strained expression came over the healer’s face. “Well. I’d guess you’d know, kid. We’ll keep him under for now, then. Guess that means we need more bedpans,” she finished sourly.

Rhea and Seteth had finally managed to make their way by the bedside. “Child,” Rhea managed down to Byleth and Edelgard. Byleth could feel Edelgard stiffen as Rhea, in all of her verdant glory, leaned close and addressed them directly. “Are you certain you could not heal him? Not even with the aid of the Goddess?”

“She was with me the entire time,” mumbled Byleth defensively. Feeling the vibrant warmth of Edelgard’s arm around her, she added, “I know it’s hard to believe me. But she said Dimitri was stuck. Stuck in Time, stuck in his memories. So I tried to heal him, but then he summoned...I guess you’d call them protectors. In his mind. She told me she could not interfere anymore without affecting his free will or something. I was supposed to talk about it some more with the rest of you.”

It was difficult to tell who was shocked harder by the time she finished her explanation. Rhea, or the Princess beside her. Edelgard’s hand tightened hard on Byleth’s neck, but as the Knight shifted in pain, it then settled into a soothing massage. Trips sighed nearby and shook her head at the Church drama, and busied herself with checking Dimitri’s vitals.

Seteth took charge when Rhea lapsed into a brooding silence. “Cadet Edelgard. Cadet Petra. Will you help assist Knight Byleth to her quarters? We must consult with the more experienced healers on the best way forward.”

Petra bowed in acknowledgement. “We will, Father Seteth.”

Byleth tried to stand on her own, but she soon found she was indeed too sore and stiff to do so without aid. Petra and Edelgard helped her walk from the room, the Knights and students dispersing, along with some grim-faced monks and abbesses who had been observing the proceedings earlier. Down the hall, she saw Hilda had abandoned her axe in the room, and was escorting Marianne down the hall, whispering into the taller, crying girl’s ear as she hugged her close. Looking back between the bodies, Dedue had not moved from his place at the foot of Dimitri’s bed, although Byleth noticed Bernadetta getting up to stand beside him, quietly giving support.

Struggling against a sense of failure and confusion, Byleth whispered to herself, “I’m making things worse. Aren’t I?”

“It was unfair,” snapped Edelgard by her ear as she assisted her. “This was only your third time healing, ever, by your own words. Those blinded by faith are always seeking new idols to worship. The only thing this proves is that you are a mortal, like the rest of us.”

“It was no wasted hunt,” added Petra eagerly, from her left. “A hunt that finds spoor and tracks can be making the next one having a bounty. Since you are the twice-savior of Lady Edelgard, I believe you walk with the Spirits, Knight Byleth. Even if there is failure, the Spirits keep giving their wisdom. Always.”

Encouraged by that speech, Byleth smiled slightly. She turned her head to Edelgard as they helped her into her room. “I don’t think Linhardt or Hubert is the smartest one in your class,” she said seriously.

“Indeed,” said the Princess, nodding at her fellow royal, who proudly beamed with a brilliant smile. “Which is why I deeply desire to foster healthy relations with Brigid in the future.”

* * *

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” smiled Hubert obsequiously with a bow.

“Ah, young Hubert,” smiled his old tutor, his pale face and black veins visible over every inch of exposed skin. Myson the Agarthan grinned up at him as he waved a hand in a mocking invitation before the gates of the half-ruined castle behind him. “I guess you are wondering of the location of your precious Death Knight. He’s here, resting comfortably in his chambers, although one of Calliope's lost experiments made it a close thing.”

Hubert merely grunted at this as he followed the black robed Agarthan deeper into Castle Hyrm. Pale staff members hurried about on errands, bowing deeply to Myson as he passed by without acknowledgement. The exterior of the ancient structure still showed damage from the failed rebellion over a decade past, with rubble and scorch marks all around, but the accommodations within had been restored for comfortable living. Hubert noted in the stone halls there were now lighting fixtures with no flame, which instead glowed with some fey green power.

“Are you not worried such technological modifications will cause scrutiny?” Hubert asked, passing by a door that opened with no discernable handle or lock. Two plague masked Agarthans went by, their muffled voices deep in private conversation.

“Lord Hyrm has given his permission. All who work here know the punishment for loose tongues,” Myson chuckled. “And in any case, who would believe them or care? Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

“Quite,” said Hubert, not really concurring but wanting the man to keep talking. Every scrap of discarded information from these mysterious cultists was useful. “Will you be needing a report of Lonato’s attack from me?”

“No, not really. Solon keeps us well informed of events at the monastery. Besides, Thales is unhappy with you and your little Flame. She acted extremely foolishly in engaging Lonato directly. Your only usefulness to us is in keeping her alive, and you nearly failed to do so.” Myson waved a glowing hand, and they passed by another sliding door composed of unknown metals. Hubert ground his teeth together, but could only agree with this rebuke.

Inside the large dining chamber they entered, there were three others. Emile von Bartels, in his guise as Jeritza von Hyrm, sat uncomfortably at the head of a long table, slowly eating from a bowl of ice cream and fruit. Next to him was Cornelia Arnim, dressed in revealing robes that would make even Professor Manuela blush, attempting to engage in prattle while she sipped from a dainty teacup. Standing behind her seat was a dark skinned young woman with dark red hair, her mouth and jaw gagged and bound with an intricate metal device that blinked periodically. She was dressed in a black and white maid’s uniform and carried a tea set, and in addition, she had a tight collar around her neck tied to a black leather leash that was wrapped around the Royal Archmage’s hand. Hubert kept his mask in place at the sight, but it was a close thing.

Jeritza merely grunted at the sight of Hubert, but it was enough for the flame haired Archmage to cease her one sided conversation and frown at the intrusion. “Myson! What is the meaning of this? Who is that tall ugly beast following you around like a puppy?”

Keeping his face composed, Hubert gave a deep and humble bow to the woman before Myson could speak. “Hubert von Vestra, at your service, Asura Calliope.”

The woman rose from her seat, the leashed and gagged maid following her obediently. “Oh! How interesting. So this is your own little beast who successfully managed to master real magic?” She gracefully inclined her head and held out her manicured hand. Controlling his gorge, Hubert bowed again and kissed it. He would wash his mouth later.

“Thales insisted I teach him, having sensed something worthwhile in the boy. For a degenerate subhuman, he has adapted exceptionally well. Most of the others I’ve attempted to convert had to be liquidated,” said Myson proudly. Hubert kept ice cold control of his emotions as he nodded in confirmation to the wretch. He still bore scars from Myson’s “lessons.”

Standing back to his full height, Hubert consciously forced facial muscles to relax. “Will Lord Arundel be joining us?” he inquired politely.

“Sadly, our dear Agyasta is dreadfully busy. Building up armaments, pulling the wool over Aegir and Bergliez’s eyes, and securing finances from Lord Hevring and your own Lord Father is time consuming. Although he is pleased with the success of our initial gambit,” winked Cornelia with a cruel laugh, resuming her seat.

“That is unfortunately why I am here,” Hubert said, shifting his gaze to Jeritza. “I must inform you that Lord Hyrm’s position at the monastery is now compromised. Several of my fellow students witnessed his indiscriminate attacks upon civilians in Garreg Mach Town. Along with his subsequent disappearance, he is now under suspicion and wanted for questioning by Church authorities.”

Both Agarthans turned accusing glares towards the tall pale blonde man. He shrugged carelessly and took another bite of his banana split.

“You did not tell us this, Death Knight,” hissed Cornelia.

“You did not ask,” he responded in his dead monotone.

Pleased, the Black Eagle folded his arms behind his back. “There is also worry from my mistress concerning the asset of the Church this battle has revealed. A recently ascended Holy Knight of Seiros is now rumored to be a Saint Reborn,” continued Hubert.

Myson scoffed at that. “More delusional nonsense from those draconic cultists. No doubt they are trying to salvage some propaganda material to restore their reputation after their disastrous military failure.”

“Normally I would agree,” nodded Hubert in deference to his tutor. “But I witnessed and experienced the event myself. My nose was...broken...in the battle, but as the Knight healed Lady Edelgard, multiple others were healed in the vicinity as well, including myself, at a range of several hundred meters.”

“Impossible!” insisted Myson hotly, a flush coming to his ghost white face.

“A Fortify? Surely then one of the Nabateans must have done it,” said Cornelia thoughtfully, tapping her cup.

“No, it was this Knight of Seiros. I was standing by Lady Edelgard’s side when the event occurred. She goes by the name of Byleth, although that may be a moniker. Blue hair, blue eyes, and human ears, although her Crest is supposedly a Lost Crest. We have been unable to identify it,” reported Hubert.

The Agarthans stared at one another as they considered it more seriously. “Solon sent a note about this, although I thought it was just him being excited by a scientific curiosity. It could be one of the Lost Six, or even the Crest of Maurice. I learned of those is already attending Garreg Mach,” said Myson as he began pacing.

His compatriot scoffed. “The only healing Crest among the Lost Six is Timotheus, Myson. What color is this Knightly beast’s skin? Not like my dear Hapi here, is she?” Cornelia asked, yanking on the leash and making the redhead stumble and the teaset clatter.

Finally given permission to stare, Hubert met the red eyes of the strange woman. “No, the Knight is much more fair of complexion. I presume this is the experiment that forced Lord Hyrm to flee?” he asked coolly. Jeritza grunted again at the question but did not bother arguing.

“She is indeed,” Cornelia purred, proud to show off. “She was my favorite pet for years. A Major Crest of Timotheus, who just happened to have run away from her native village. The poor thing was starving when I found her a decade ago on the streets of Fhirdiad. I gave her a lovely home and all the food and sweets she could want, but her wanderlust struck her again around the time I was engineering the so-called Tragedy. I never thought to search for her in Garreg Mach, of all places.” 

“She is a liability. She should be killed before her power destroys us,” rumbled Jeritza, pushing away his empty bowl. Hubert instantly focused on the implication. The Death Knight himself, if he did not fear Hapi, expressed deep respect for her abilities.

Laughing, Cornelia said, “You ignorant brute. As long as her mouth is bound, she is utterly powerless. Besides, imagine the potential in our future campaigns. Once we unlock her full strength, we will have a solid template for more experiments. We might even get this one to breed a litter, now that she’s grown.” Another cruel tug on the leash made the young woman trip again, barely able to hold the tray steady.

Recognizing the quiet despair from Hapi’s stance, as well as the deeply horrifying threat of Cornelia’s words, Hubert stepped closer to the strange woman, pretending to scrutinize her. “The ability to summon endless hordes of monsters would indeed be useful. I saw that there is little left standing in Garreg Mach Town. If she can be trained to be loyal.”

Cornelia sneered up at him, while Hapi’s red eyes narrowed. But Myson already had the barb prepared as he replied scornfully, “As loyal as yourself, Vestra?”

“Mutual self-interest and survival is somewhat remarkable in achieving that, yes,” he smoothly answered to his masters, even bile rose in his throat. “Torture and humiliation achieves the opposite effect, in my experience.”

“Hapi is loyal,” said the voluptuous Archmage in a sweet, sinister tone, all the while swirling the liquid in her teacup. “She has merely undergone a teenage rebellion, which is not uncommon in many of our experiments. But once they mature, most of them see the wisdom of submitting to the natural order. Somewhat like yourself, my dear Lord Vestra,” she added with a poisonous smile.

“And I will tell you what I have told my old teacher here,” Hubert said, brushing his hair back from his eyes so Cornelia could see them clearly. Yet looking into her eyes, he knew here that there was a coldness that far exceeded his own. And was amused by it. He plunged forward anyway. “Our shared enemy is the Church of Seiros, and those territories that might swear fealty to it. Your ‘natural order’ will be considered an aberration among the ‘beasts’ you hope to rule. The people of Fódlan will accept Imperial sovereignty far more readily than your ancient racial hegemony. Perhaps then, when the Church of Seiros is overthrown, her Imperial Majesty will introduce you into official roles for the Empire.” Of course, Emperor Edelgard’s future role for the Agarthans was to put them back underground. As fertilizer.

“Is that a warning, Lord Vestra?” challenged Cornelia.

“No, it is advice,” Hubert replied in a monotone. “I will freely admit you are our superiors in magic and might and knowledge. That is beyond debate. But you underestimate those ‘exceptional subhumans,’ like me, who are in the employ of the Church to both of our perils. They have many competent individuals who are fanatical to their cause, not merely the three remaining Children of the Goddess. It would be troubling if an unique, Crest-bearing Knight of Seiros ruined all of our plotting at this late stage.”

Pausing in his contemplation, Myson said, “I told you this one was smart for its kind, Calliope. And I agree. If a new Holy Knight is under the Immaculate One’s authority, we must dispose of it. Before it is strengthened by her cursed blood, like the wielder of Thunderbrand.”

“That was _supposed_ to be the Death Knight’s job,” said the Asura dismissively. 

“None living at the monastery have seen me in that guise,” replied Jeritza in his slow and quiet voice. “As long as I remain armored, I will not be recognized if I return for a mission.”

As the two Agarthans began to argue with the sociopath, Hubert took his chance. Stepping back like a butler, he assumed position by Hapi, standing at attention. Tightly focusing his thoughts and shielding his mind, he opened a mental channel to the gagged woman in maid’s clothing.

_If you have anything you wish to tell me, do so now._

To her credit, the only sign of surprise from Hapi was a slight widening of red eyes and a quick glance to him. Closing them, she responded in like fashion. 

_You’re an Academy student, right? And you’re fucking working with these shitstains? Go die in a fire._

Normally a commendable attitude. But Hubert had little time and pressed on. _I am a survivor of their tutelage. I suspect you are the same. If you tell me their plans for you, I will try my very best to stop them and possibly save you._

Her responding thoughts were dark and twisted. _You heard them. They want to...make more like me. This bitch used to make me kill entire villages with my summons, randomly. I couldn’t tell why. They just wanted death and chaos, all over the place. It never made any fucking sense to me._

Unfortunately, it was starting to do so for Hubert. The casual, careless brutality of the Agarthans had longed vexed him and his mistress, yet his mind now shied away from the implications. He hurried with one last thought. _Have you any loved ones at the monastery? I will inform them you are captured._

At that, the thoughts of the woman hesitated and became less focused. _I guess...tell Coco and Big B and Yuri-bird I’m alive. You must be a Black Eagle? Doris and her blonde girlfriend too, along with Demon Knight. Don’t bother to risk trying to rescue me. I know when I’m good and fucked._

So then. The woman at least knew Dorothea. Perhaps from the shopping trip in the town. A starting point, although the other names were odd and unfamiliar. Perhaps nicknames. Hubert blinked his golden eyes open to catch the tail end of the auditory conversation.

“...and that’s why we’ll have to get little Lord Vestra here to bring your armor back to you. He can do that at least,” said the disguised Cornelia with a disdainful wave of her teacup.

Picking up on the cue, Hubert answered the skinchanged Agarthan. “Certainly. There is enough confusion up at Garreg Mach for me to move freely for the moment. I will be glad to assist Lord Hyrm on his new mission.”

“Our original forged letter was never found on Lonato’s body, according to Solon’s report,” grunted Myson. “Somehow the Church fools missed it in the aftermath of battle. Or perhaps the Feral Prince tore it to shreds during his rampage. That is why we’ll need your assistance, boy, in planting a new one. Possibly in a student’s dormitory.”

“You handle the details, Myson,” said Calliope with a languid sigh, setting down her teacup and saucer. “I find myself feeling stressed from all this news. I’ll be in my bedroom with my pet until dinner. Don’t bother summoning me until then. We’ll be...occupied.”

“Why Calliope. I had no idea you were into bestiality,” laughed the other Agarthan.

“It’s all part of her retraining,” said the Archmage in her sickening voice. Standing from her seat, she ran a loving hand through Hapi’s red hair, in a sordid display of affection which the other woman endured with a flinch. That only made the female Agarthan smile even more widely. “I do have _some_ maternal instincts, Myson. And part of being a good pet is wanting to please Mommy, isn’t it, my dear little beastie?” She flicked the leash hard in command.

To Hubert’s horror and revulsion, Hapi instantly set aside the tray she had been carrying and dropped to all fours. As Cornelia cooed encouragements and Myson laughed cruelly at the display, the high ranking Agarthan made the young woman follow behind her like a dog as they exited the room. It took all of his not inconsiderable control to not blast the monstrous bitch with a spell. Even Jeritza himself glowered in distaste at their actions, rising and leaving for the training yard.

“Well then. We need to make a new ‘assassination plot,’ don’t we? Let us hurry and write it, before your presence is missed back at the Immaculate One’s filthy lair,” Myson told him, his chalk white face still chortling.

Hubert mentally grimaced, but listened attentively to his new orders from the inhuman creature.

* * *

“...and that’s what happened, Professor,” said Annette quietly. Caspar and Ashe nodded in confirmation next to her in the small office.

Seated at his desk, Jeralt finished writing his report in his cramped scrawl, then inverted the scroll for the three students. “Each of you sign here as witnesses. We’ll need to post a bounty for Jeritza soon. Although if he’s smart, he’s already retreating back to his territory in the Empire. Mainly this will be about keeping that noble lunatic there and not anywhere else.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Ashe said, finishing his signature and stepping back to make room for his friends. “I’d like to know if my friend Yuri is safe in town. He saved me from my father’s men. Can I have leave to go and search for him?”

“Shamir and her scouts are still in the process of making sure the town’s safe, kid,” Jeralt replied kindly. “I know it’s messed up, but it might be a week or so before students are allowed anywhere. And you know that we’re trying to keep you safe from any crazy reprisals, too.”

“Hey! Any jerks who want to mess with my buddy Ashe better steer clear! I don’t care if they’re with the Church or not!” yelled Caspar after he had made his mark on the scroll.

“Caspar, it’s okay,” smiled Ashe weakly. “I don’t care if I’m still under suspicion. I’m just glad all my classmates made it through my father’s attack. Including you, Professor Jeralt.”

Professor Jeralt sighed and rubbed his eyes. “And I’ll level with you kids. I shouldn’t be here. Whatever Lonato hit me and the Princess with, it should have blasted us both into a comfortable dirt nap,” admitted the battle hardened ex-Knight. “Ashe, I know it’s putting more pressure on you, and I’m sorry to ask. But anything you can tell us about how your Lord Father got a weapon like that could save lives.”

Ashe stared at the floor. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I don’t know anything about that. He never showed anything like that to me. I guess...thinking back on it, he was very busy and distracted before I came to Garreg Mach. He kept saying he needed to train the men; it was for our security. And he often had visitors from the Western Church, but I didn’t catch any of their names or faces. They all usually came masked or in cowls. I just hope my brother and sister are okay,” he finished sadly.

“I’m sure they are,” assured the Blade-breaker, not sure at all. Who knows what else Lonato could have done? “Most of the Knights are still on the Magdred Way. Hopefully Zarad or Alois has the presence of mind to send some kind of force to secure Castle Gaspard.”

“What’s going to happen to us, Professor? I mean, the school year’s not even halfway over. We’ll still have classes, right?” worried a fidgeting Annette.

“We will, kid. But obviously things are going to look a little different around here for a while.”

* * *

“Wait. Professor Jeritza is Mercedes’ _younger brother_?” asked a bewildered Leonie.

“Goddess’ honest truth! I mean, I guess that’s why he wore that mask all the time. Although he didn’t dye his hair, which made it kind of obvious in retrospect…” said Sylvain, hefting the food laden tray carefully down the stairs as they exited the dining hall.

“Oh no. Poor Mercedes. I can’t imagine what she must be feeling right now,” said Ignatz, biting his lip.

“Yeah, she didn’t take it well. You know how normally she’d be out here helping out Flayn and Professor Manuela with all the injuries and healing, but she’s been locked in her room since last night. I’m really worried about her,” the redhead noble explained.

“As a friend and fellow student, right? No funny business,” said Leonie archly, offensively wagging a finger in his face.

“Hey! I can be...decent! To women!” sputtered Sylvain in a half-indignant defense.

“You act like that’s an accomplishment,” the huntress sneered at him.

“Hey, Leonie...m-maybe we shouldn’t fight right now. We need to be fully present to help Mercedes,” said Ignatz timidly, rubbing the back of his light green head in discomfort.

“As long as Mr. Crested Noble here behaves,” the huntress huffed dismissively. Sylvain rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like it was anything he hadn’t heard before. 

In short order, they presented themselves at Mercedes’ door. Ignatz timidly knocked on the door, then called out. “Mercedes? Uh, it’s me, Ignatz...and Leonie and Sylvain. W-we know you’re in a great deal of pain right now, but...maybe you can eat some food we brought for you?” 

“Yeah, I know it’s not a delicious baked treat, but you probably didn’t get a chance to eat, and we just want you to keep up your strength, Mercie! Everyone’s here for you if you need us!” Sylvain added, trying to keep the tray steady.

No response. Sylvain and Ignatz looked at each other helplessly.

“Oh for the love of--” snorted Leonie. Brushing past the boys, she slammed her fist into the door with a geometric multiple of the force Ignatz had used. “Mercedes!” the woman yelled. “You open this door this instant!”

Finally, the wooden door creaked open and a frazzled Mercedes peered out, her makeup and hair still askew and still in her old uniform. “Oh. I’m so sorry to worry all of you. I’ve been just...a little out of sorts after yesterday,” she whispered softly.

“Hey, I get it. But there’s too many people out here who need your help right now to fall apart. Gimme that, Sylvain,” ordered Leonie, grabbing the tray and shouldering her way inside Mercedes’ room. The older girl was forced to step aside for the force of nature that was Leonie. “Come sit here and the desk and eat and drink something. World doesn’t stop just because something bad happens to you. After that, you should probably head to the bathhouse and dress in fresh clothes. That’ll make you feel better.”

Sylvain first watched in disgruntlement, then in awe. Mercedes’ meekly assented to Leonie’s bossiness, allowing the younger woman to guide her to her seat and deposit the tray on her writing desk. Leonie thrust the utensil in Mercedes’ hand, then went about cleaning her room and rifling through the Blue Lion’s drawers for fresh bedding. Fixing an orange stare at Ignatz and Sylvain, she snorted in exasperation and said, “One of you become useful for once and help me change her sheets.”

Ignatz stammered an apology and stepped forward to assist, while Sylvain lingered near Mercedes as she sipped slowly at the watered down stew and took small drinks from her cup. He almost reached out to touch her comfortingly, then sternly reminded himself to respect boundaries.

Instead he said quietly, “I’d heard that Shamir and some Knights are looking through the town for survivors. No signs of Hapi yet, or anyone resembling Yuri or your friend Constance. Or even...Emile.”

“Thank you, Sylvain,” she murmured without looking up. “I hope they all made it to safety.”

Leaning against the wall, he folded his arms. “What are you thinking right now?”

Sighing, she set down her spoon and faced him. “I’m not sure. I really don’t know why Emile was here at the monastery. But he went missing for years. I think something terrible happened to him. Growing up with our birth Father was...hard.”

Sylvain scowled at that. “You don’t have to tell me anything more. You and your mom were forced to flee from that bastard. Tells me everything I need to know about his character.” 

“That’s why I can’t hate my brother, even if he did such horrible deeds,” Mercedes nodded to him. “Emile was such a sweet, sensitive boy when we were growing up. Connie and I would tease him about his sweet tooth and he’d blush like an adorable red rose.” The healer smiled briefly at the memory. “I remember that he hated martial training and simply wanted to help us in the gardens or read or play teatime with us. It’s difficult to reconcile that little brother I knew with such a cold, distant man like Professor Jeritza.”

About to reply, Sylvain found Leonie next to him and glaring at him in the eye. Tall girls were normally attractive for him, but this tomboy was something else. “Hey!” Leonie said. “I told you no funny business! Give her space and let her eat her meal without your pestering!”

Mercedes reassuringly let out a lighthearted giggle. “Oh, it’s fine Leonie. Sylvain was simply trying his best to make me feel better. I think it’s working,” she said with a warm smile, and the Gautier heir was relieved to note a lively spark returning to her blue eyes.

* * *

“Why do you let my joke of a life continue?” moaned Constance up towards the afternoon sky.

“Because we haven’t heard the punchline yet, Shady Lady,” grunted Yuri, gently pulling on her right arm up the hill to the monastery. The reek of the battlefield surrounded them and their footwear was soon ruined by constant streams of red tinged muck. “Also, you still owe me a pair of licorice boots.”

“As if a mutilated mage such as myself is capable of such feats of grand magic anymore,” she groaned, scratching at her left stump with her fingernails. She swayed and Balthus and Yuri were forced to carry most of her weight. “Leave me here, among the dead, where I belong. My parents and brother are impatient that I have not joined them in the bloody ground.”

“Boss, I dunno if this is gonna work,” grunted Balthus as he shifted his grip around her waist to help carry her. “I mean, it’s just mean if we’re just getting her hopes up.”

“It’s gotta work,” said Yuri, nodding to a fellow gang member to take their place as they took the lead. They were coming up to the monastery gates, and Knights and monks were becoming more frequent sights as they moved about the churned red mud of the recent battle. Tents and hospices and middens were set up, with Knights in masks carrying bodies or equipment to differing piles. Greasy, ashy smoke drifted in the wind and covered their clothing.

Even though Balthus and some of the other gang had informed them of it, the sight of the torn and burnt monastery gates struck them with awe and dread. The portcullis was twisted open like a melted spider’s web, and the oaken iron shod massive doors of the gate were scattered about in large splinters the size of men. Even the stones of the monastery wall were blackened and crushed, with the parapet above the gate almost entirely gone.

A nervous looking squad of Knights noted their small band and moved to surround them, their hands on their weapons. “Halt! State your business! No refugees are allowed inside the monastery bearing arms!” one of them in the lead shouted at the gang.

Rolling their eyes, Yuri extended their right hand for the Knight of Seiros to inspect. On it was the ring given to them by Aelfric and Rhea: the signet of the White Shadows, the spies of Seiros. On the engraved sigil was the white symbol of Seiros, inverted on a dark field.

The Knight was doubtful, squinting closely at the ring. “Where’d you find this, rogue? Off of some Knight’s corpse?”

“No, it was very generously given to me by Lady Rhea herself,” grinned Yuri in reply. “I know we don’t look like much, but I’d like to request an audience with her or Father Seteth...immediately, please.”

The nervous and battle-weary Knights hesitated, but eventually one was detailed to run off and find Seteth. The verdant haired Bishop and Headmaster returned shortly, his black cape and blue robes of state rumpled and blood-stained and his face haggard, but he greeted them amicably enough.

“Ah, Yuri. I assume you are here to provide a report, but it may be some time before I or the Archbishop may receive it, and space is currently precious at the monastery. Perhaps later this evening…”

“Nope, not waiting for this,” said Yuri coldly, interrupting Seteth. The Knights surrounding them muttered at their words, but the Church Spymaster plowed on ruthlessly. They nodded to Constance as Balthus brought her up. “A mage associate of mine, not to mention a former graduate of the Academy, was attacked and mutilated by your Combat Professor in town yesterday. I heard there was a Saint Reborn up here who was handing out the Fortifies like candy in the battle. More to the point, if Byleth and Catherine hadn’t run into my men in town, they wouldn’t be here. I’m calling in the debt, Lord Seteth.”

Seteth grimaced at the demand, but examined Constance more fully, noting the massive and memorable Balthus von Albrecht assisting her. There were confirmed reports he had also performed heroically in the battle. “She has a missing limb?” he asked, watching Constance anxiously rub her bandaged stump.

“Yeah,” muttered Balthus, appropriately contrite in the presence of his old Headmaster. “Look, Padre, I know it’s asking a bunch, but we’ve lost a whole lot of our buddies to Lonato and that Jeritza jerk. You know us, we don’t ask for much. But we’re asking the Goddess for this.”

“Why would the Goddess care about an insignificant worm like me?” groaned Constance, her blues eyes shut tight. “A segmented, sinful worm, no less. Please, Father Seteth, tell the Holy Saint to use their abundant gifts on a more worthy member of the laity.”

“Unfortunately, that has already been attempted,” sighed Seteth obliquely. “Very well. But you three may enter and wait, perhaps in the reception hall or the gardens. And you may reassure the rest of your...er, associates...that they will be compensated by the Central Church with the appropriate weregild for your brave assistance and suffering. Please follow me. We must discuss this further in privacy.”

* * *

“Where is young Hubert? We could use his input!” muttered Professor Hanneman in his laboratory. His normally cluttered desk was cleared, his precious tea set from his long-dead sister set carefully in the corner. On the table sat the twisted and blackened remnants of the lance Lonato had used against the Church itself.

“I believe he mentioned something about informing Lord Arundel of the attack upon Garreg Mach,” supplied the elderly Tomas helpfully from his comfortable chair in the corner of the room. 

“Typical Imperial noble. Can’t function autonomously without input from on high,” sniffed Lysithea, bent over and writing into a parchment filled with notes and outlines, along with meticulously accurate illustrations.

“Well, speaking for myself, we’re not all entirely like that. I for one like to follow my own path in life,” yawned Linhardt, a large and ornate book of Crests and Holy Relics in his lap, occasionally turning pages with ivory stylus.

Lysithea’s white head looked up and scowled at him. “The path of a sloth, maybe. Or perhaps a seventeen year locust?”

“A seventeen year nap does sound nice, doesn’t it?” smiled the Black Eagle student dreamily. “Especially after all that awful violence. That was a rude affair. Oh, and by the way, I can’t find anything like a Holy Relic or Lance that fits the description of this one, Professor. Luin, the Lance of Ruin, and Areadbhar are obviously out, and the Spear of Assal reportedly had no magical capabilities aside from healing. I’m leaning towards Gradivus, myself…”

“It may be possible, if we only had a description of that weapon and its capabilities, aside from legendary poems and fables,” grumbled Hanneman. “So far that is only supposition.”

“Gradivus was supposedly broken and lost ages ago, in the Crescent Moon War,” mused Tomas. “However, perhaps it, or a forged likeness, made its way into Lonato’s hands.”

The door to the study opened, and a disheveled and not too clean Claude entered the room, along with the massive frame of Raphael carrying a tray from the kitchens. Lysithea scrunched up her nose as he approached. “Claude. Some of us have managed to find our way to the bathhouse after a battle, because we realize we’re not the only people in the universe.”

“Sorry about that, Lysithea,” smiled the young man, helping Raphael distribute refreshments from the tray. “Too busy wanting to know everything about a weapon that can turn me inside out, even though it is broken in front of me.” Eschewing a utensil, he flung himself into a nearby empty chair and started slurping his soup from the bowl with both hands.

Linhardt’s nose wrinkled as well. “Amazing. I’d never thought I’d see someone with even worse table manners than Caspar,” he said, setting his book aside and accepting a bowl from Raphael. “And you. You look terrible. Did you even sleep last night?”

“Couldn’t,” said the brawny young man, his eyes still bright and mirthful despite the bags under them. “Too many people needed my help! I can’t go sit and rest when there’s a job to do!”

“I know you strive to be a good Knight, young man, but a weary Knight can be a burden on his fellows,” said Professor Hanneman, not unkindly. “Trust me that there will still be chores after you have rested.” 

“Wait, Raphael, you didn’t tell me that,” said Claude anxiously. “Did you even get to eat, big guy?”

The big man frowned. “I’m not gonna take food out of someone’s mouth who needs it more than I do. Like you said, I’m a big guy, so I’m not gonna faint if I miss a little dinner. A whole lot of people right after that battle...they needed a hot meal much more than I did.”

“Ugh. No need to be so noble and self-sacrificing,” grumped Lysithea, after exchanging a look with Claude behind Raphael’s back. She bit into one sweet bun from her plate, then offered the remainder to her large classmate. “Her’ph. Taik iht befor Ah hanged muh mahnd,” she mumbled, crunching into the large pastry in her small hands and looking little more than like a deeply satisfied snowy chipmunk.

“Are you sure, Little Lys?” asked Raphael, worried about her but still eyeing the plate.

“Please do what she suggests, Raphael. Don’t make her angry. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry,” said Linhardt helpfully from his own plate.

Raphael’s thick face softened, and he considerately retreated into the other corner of the room to greedily consume his first meal in almost two days.

“Anyway,” said Claude over the loud grunts and smacking noises. “I looked up the genealogical tables in the Church library. Lonato’s family historically was a cadet branch of Lamines, Cethleanns, and Macuil Houses. Something about a grand effort of making a super healing family of nobles. Apparently some long forgotten ancestor lucked out on marriage into House Nuvelle. But all that Crest blood somehow diluted itself after his old House joined the Kingdom. The Gaspard line hasn’t produced a Crest bearing heir in centuries.”

Sighing, Hanneman lectured, “Not diluted, but perhaps more spilled carelessly. Loog’s Rebellion was relatively short but a terrible, continent wide conflict. Many nobles were killed in the ensuing power struggles, and many Houses went extinct or were otherwise purged for disloyalty, be it real or imagined from either side. The Church itself at the time was alarmed by the waste of the Gifts of the Goddess, but all attempts to broker peace failed until Emperor Siegfried fell at Gronder Field. After that, the remnants of the Empire finally sued for peace.”

“And then they were suddenly smaller than the new northern Kingdom,” smiled Claude with a dark green twinkle. “I bet that was a bitter draught.”

“Bitter indeed. They were now forced to guard their exposed ports and borders and rebuild the Imperial Army,” nodded Hanneman. “The successor, Emperor Gertrude II, is not fondly remembered in the Empire, but she did much with little. Adrestia was suddenly in the unenviable position of being surrounded by enemies on all sides. Survival is sometimes more paramount than expansion.”

“Even the Church of Seiros suffered mighty cracks after those ancient wars,” sighed Tomas expansively. “And we can witness the evidence even today. I fear the Western Church longs for true independence at last. There can be no other explanation for Lonato’s wasteful, horrific attack upon the Holy Church.”

“That still doesn’t explain where this weapon came from,” grumped Lysithea, wiping sticky fingers on a napkin. “It’s made of Mythril, which is basically priceless these days. No new Mythril veins have been tapped for centuries in Fódlan. And we can tell it had many runes and glyphs, but the weapon is so burnt up you can’t even read half of them. If Dimitri hadn’t pitched a fit like a child, we’d probably have already solved where it came from by now.”

“Ah, that reminds me,” nodded Hanneman, looking up from his own small meal. “We may as well take a break and see if Knight Byleth has made any progress with the young Prince.”

“Oh! Here, everyone, I’ll take your dishes!” said a beaming Raphael, his broad chin covered in crumbs. Hanneman sighed in distaste but allowed the small rain of sticky breading to fall on his desk as the big man stacked bowls and cups and plates. As he did so, his gaze travelled over the seared and twisted metal. “So I guess you guys are having trouble finding out about this dangerous Relic thingy?”

“Yeah, what it is, how Lonato could wield it when he doesn’t have a Crest, where he got it, we haven’t found a single clue,” said Claude as he yawned while standing. Linhardt sympathetically yawned with him.

“Well, it’s probably an old weapon, right? That’s where Mythril comes from, I know that much,” said the big man innocently, hefting the tray. “Best appraiser of really old weapons my parents knew was Anna. Remember her? She has a stall at the monastery, and little Bern and Big Ig helped her defend it. Real nice girl, and a much better trader than I could ever be! I’m sure she’ll be happy to consult as a way to pay back the favor!” he finished with another broad smile.

Claude, Lysithea, Hanneman, and Linhardt all looked at each other. Then back at Raphael.

“What a remarkably insightful suggestion,” said Tomas in his wry tone, standing and leaning on his cane. “A good lesson that true intelligence can come from even the most unanticipated individuals.”

* * *

Lorenz sat adrift in his room, feeling truly aimless and directionless for the first time in his life. The sun outside his window dipped lower and lower, the frosted panes slowly glowing dimmer, forcing him to light candles and lanterns with an enchanted finger. He was too keyed up and restless for sleep, the night before he would likely be expelled from the Academy. 

He had been rebuffed at every turn, today. His last day at Garreg Mach. Lady Hilda told him in no uncertain terms that she and Lady Marianne needed no company, even though the taller woman was in obvious distress. The thought of it wounded him. Was his company truly so unbearable?

Stung, he graciously offered his assistance to Lady Lysithea, whose tales of terrible suffering and bravery in battle had reached his ears this morning. The albino noblewoman told him, in scathing and direct commentary that left his ears burning with shame, what exactly he could do with his assistance.

Dorothea and Mercedes and Lady Bernadetta and Lady Ingrid had locked themselves in their rooms.

Poor Prince Dimitri would be in no condition for taking tea from the precious, blue patterned enchanted indestructible tea set Lorenz had been discreetly working upon. So much for that project, he thought with a sigh. 

He even asked Lady Catherine and Professor Manuela if there was anything he could do for them as they moved about their duties. Catherine was somewhat kinder, at least. “It’s okay, Lorenz, we’re fine. We just don’t have time to babysit right now.” THAT casual dismissal sent him fleeing away from the Holy Knight as fast as his long legs could carry him.

Even Claude and Leonie were too distracted to notice his presence, Claude already off in one of his innumerable schemes with hardly a thank-you for saving his life, and Leonie was too distracted by duty to pay attention to him. Him, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester! It was like they were deliberately refusing to compliment him on his grand sacrifice and charity, before his expulsion.

His own Professor was overcome with concern for his daughter and had no time for him. That, at least, was understandable. But all the rest...they were treating him like he was...Ignatz! Or Cyril! A nonentity of a personality that was at best tolerated, and then removed or ignored once it buzzed too loudly.

Leonie at least had tried to say good-bye last night, in her own way, he reminded himself. But even that thought curdled in his stomach like tea with sour milk. So much for a grand, dramatic, noble gesture of chivalry. His Lioness had saved herself easily; he should have expected no less. But knowing their friends, Knight Byleth and Knight Catherine, were trapped in the town, he had quickly followed Sylvain and Ferdinand on their idiotic scheme to rescue the rest of them, then had foolishly enticed a curious Lady Ingrid into their plans. Instead they ended up fighting a summoned monster that nearly killed them all.

And now his father would have to come fetch him from his studies. Again. Political turmoil was no place for the son of Count Gloucester, where the life of the heir might be at risk. His education would be put off again, and soon he would be cloistered at the family manor, locked up with his own inadequacies and bad poetry for company. He felt like an unmarriageable fool. No matter what he did or strove to achieve, he would always be treated like a truant little schoolboy by others.

Lorenz forced himself to perk up a bit. He had at least witnessed a miracle from the Saint Reborn. Few Gloucesters in their long history could ever come close to claiming that. Perhaps he could capitalize on that accolade, somehow.

A loud knock at his door drew him reverie.

“You may enter,” he called, miffed at the intrusion.

He nearly gasped at the unlikely trio that entered his room. Sylvain grinned at him roguishly, hefting a clay jug in his hands, Ferdinand and Lady Ingrid trailing reluctantly behind him. The redhead latched and locked the door behind them.

Lorenz rose from his bed and folded his arms. “What is the meaning of this?”

“This is your initiation into our club, Lorenz,” twinkled Sylvain, setting the corked jug on the floor with a sloshing thump. He seated himself on the ground behind it. “I think we’ve all got something in common, and we all need a little distraction from it. Because no one else in the monastery knows exactly how we’re feeling right now.”

“All of us made an impulsive choice,” agreed Lorenz readily. “I still do not see…”

“You three are the last idiots I should ever be seen with,” growled Lady Ingrid defensively, clearly unhappy and uncomfortable. “I can’t believe you roped me into this, Sylvain. I’m going to have a reputation to consider, and My Lord Father…”

Sylvain pulled a camping cup from his uniform and poured himself a generous share of...whatever was in the jug. Obviously alcoholic, and of poor quality, judging by the reek he could smell from across the room. “See, Ingrid,” the Gautier noble interrupted her. “That’s just it. Do you want to see your Father right now and explain things to him? About everything?” He took a swig, muttering, “There’s the burn…”

Ingrid’s jaw bunched up tightly and she didn’t look at Sylvain.

Ferdinand was frowning mightily at the redhead noble’s casual attitude. “Lady Ingrid’s reluctance to face her family and her own private considerations have little to do with your own spiral into dissoluteness, Lord Gautier. I thought you had pledged your word to become better than this. What about..”

“And you Ferdinand. Do you want to see your father, the Imperial Prime Minister? And explain how you have sullied your family's name with your actions?” Sylvain shot back at the younger man. “What about that high-minded noble promise to Annette? No way of making good on that now.”

Ferdinand’s frown deepened and he did not reply. He bowed his orange head.

Sylvain knocked the rest of his cup back. “And you, Lorenz. Wanna go back to Count Gloucester? Looking forward to that conversation?”

Lorenz sighed and said in admission, “I must say, not particularly. But...I will not shirk from what remains of my duties and obligations. And I am afraid I must ask you to…”

“What about Leonie?” said Sylvain with a gleam in his eye. “Don’t bother to lie, Lorenz. Are you at all pleased with the thought of leaving her?”

Shocked into silence for an instant at such rudeness, Lorenz spluttered in indignation, “It...it was a foolish, one-sided, completely innocent school affair! She is a strong, independent, capable young lady, and I will not have you disgrace such an honorable person’s name with your vile insinuations…!”

Raising his arms in triumph, Sylvain said sarcastically to the room, “My Lords. My Lady. I rest my case.”

Ingrid sighed in defeat. “Shut up, Sylvain. You’re being an ass. I guess what I mean is...do...do you have another cup? Just for old times,” she grumbled, taking a seat on the floor beside her childhood friend with her knees to her chest. “I’ve already said good-bye to Felix, and...I can’t say good-bye to His Highness. Not with how he is,” she tightly swallowed while Sylvain gently passed a half-full cup into her hand. She experimentally sniffed at it then gagged at the smell. But she gamely tried to play along anyway, saying, “I guess...this is your own stupid, self-destructive way of saying good-bye. Isn’t it?”

“I know,” he smiled sadly, refilling his own cup. “I’ll have to be on my best behavior from now on. No more of my best friend Ingrid to come save me from fathers wielding pitchforks…”

“Lord Gwendel didn’t have a pitchfork. He had an axe. A Brave Axe,” reminded the noblewoman, taking a small sip and making a face. “I saved your life that day. But you can’t use me as your fallback option anymore. From now on you’re on your own.” Sylvain toasted her in acknowledgement and drank again.

Ferdinand shook his head at the display. “If it will make the two of you feel any better...I will share a cup with you. Only one, mind you! And I still do not approve!”

Lorenz gave a small smile to his fellow high society noble. He recognized the hidden pain in those words. “And I will make the tea. I am certainly not drinking... _whatever_ that is...straight,” he replied earnestly.

Ferdinand nodded back with a ghost of his usual cheer and confidence. “That sounds delightful, my Lord Gloucester.”

“I knew you guys would come around. If only for one last night...we can forget about our problems, waiting back for us at home,” smiled Sylvain, and while he was making the tea, Lorenz was shocked at belated realization as he studied the young man. Sylvain was a good person. He just did stupid, selfish actions. Often.

 _He hates himself,_ his poetic Muse whispered into his mind. _There’s no other explanation for his behavior._

Lorenz forced his long fingers back into steady calmness, his face its usual elegant mask as he served a simple, half-full cup of warm black tea (he refused to waste his finer ones to mix with that rotgut swill) to Ferdinand, and after a polite inquiry, a grateful Lady Ingrid. As Sylvain helped mix the drinks and everyone else was finally seated, he returned to his corner of the rug and raised his full cup yet again to his fellow nobles, his face a study of sardonic amusement. “Thanks for joining me, gang. Welp, here’s to the Wanting-To-Avoid-Dads-Club, the Expelled Students’ Society, and the Founding of the Crushing-Marriage-Expectations Chapter. To us, the Four Failures!” Sylvain’s voice was a mocking baritone.

Ingrid’s green eyes welled with tears and her mouth twisted at his bitterly painful words. Ferdinand was not much better off in maintaining his composure, but they dutifully lifted their cups.

Lorenz made a decision. “I refuse.”

Sylvain’s handsome features were shocked. “What?” he asked dumbly, the alcohol on his lips.

Lorenz set his cup and saucer down and clasped his hands to eagerly explain. “Oh, I fully understand the defeated sentiment. But my friends, I say to you that we are not failures. We succeeded in our goal! All of our friends and classmates, although they were in terrible, unexpected danger, were rescued and are alive--if not completely well,” he added in consideration for the Kingdom nobles.

Ferdinand slowly smiled brightly, his infectious spark returning. “That is true! We accomplished our mission, as foolhardy as it may have been! Above duty and honor and expectations...we instead chose friendship! And I say to each of you, my fellow nobles, that we now share a deep and everlasting bond. I hope each of you feels the same.”

“That’s...that’s true,” Ingrid allowed, looking deep into her steaming mug. “I nearly died, and Snowmane is gone, and now I’ll never be a Knight...but I can take pride and comfort in knowing my friends are alive.” Her face shone bright at the memory. “I’ll never regret that decision. Never, on my honor and my life.”

All of them regarded Sylvain on the floor.

He was flushed from the booze...or perhaps more than that, because he roughly wiped his eyes. “Lorenz...I’d never thought I’d say this, but you’re right. Our friends are more important than…”

“Not yourself! Don’t you dare say yourself,” said his childhood friend next to him fiercely. Sylvain bit back his words, completely called out and ashamed over it, hanging his head.

Lorenz was silent to graciously allow them to recover, then leaned forward in his chair. “My Lord Gautier. If I may presume...I understand how you feel. The pressure. The expectations. The doubt, and the fear. After all, look at me. I am but a middling mage. Unable to even safely wield my own family’s Relic. And many times in my own class I felt like...the weakest link. Even Lady Marianne, for all of her troubles, and Lady Hilda, for all her indolence, have now outshone me in accomplishments.”

“My dear Lord, you know that is untrue!” protested Ferdinand. “I witnessed you fearlessly charge a giant beast with nothing more than your own horsemanship and skill, completely unarmored! And without your aid and skill at riding through a full fledged battlefield, you and Lady Hilda would never have made it back into the fray in time to save Claude and your classmates!”

“Thank you, my Lord,” said Lorenz softly. Their cups sat on the small table, unnoticed. “Your words are kind and appreciated. And Lady Ingrid...I cannot imagine what you must be going through right now. To lose your beloved steed, and only be saved by the slimmest margin…”

“You’re...you’re right, Lorenz. You can’t imagine.” The proud noblewoman went on to his stunned face. “Because even if you’re expelled from the Academy, you may possibly still get what you want. But I can’t. Not anymore,” she said bitterly.

Lorenz assumed she must be speaking of her Knighthood, when Sylvain suddenly spoke up. “Ingrid...if you want to, just say the word. You know you’ll never want for anything. And I’ll promise I’ll leave you alone to do whatever your heart desires,” Sylvain said seriously and earnestly. “Goddess knows the two of us could do worse. Much worse,” he ended on a rough note.

She smiled fleetingly at his offer. “You know I love you, you idiot, but you’re my brother. I refuse to take the easy way out, but more importantly, I won’t hurt us like that. Against all odds, Sylv...I think you’ll find someone someday. Me…” she gave a small shrug of regret.

Not understanding, Lorenz coughed discreetly. “Surely, as a Major Crest of Daphnel, you do not lack for suitors, my Lady?”

All three of them were staring at him. Like he was an idiot. And maybe he was. Sighing, he tried again. “Forgive me, my Lady. I simply do not understand.”

Ferdinand gently said to Ingrid, “I can help explain, but only with your leave, Lady Ingrid.”

“Ingrid…” warned Sylvain next to her.

She shook her head at him, this time in resignation. “No. It’s fine. What’s the use of hiding it anymore? Now that I’m never going to be a Knight,” she said to herself rhetorically. “It can’t make my humiliation or shame hurt any worse. You have my permission, Ferdinand,” she said bravely, her jaw tight.

Ferdinand turned to Lorenz’s befuddled expression and said carefully, “I believe Lady Ingrid...is not seeking a suitor. She instead seeks...a bride.”

Lorenz gaped for a long moment before putting a hand to his shocked mouth. “Oh my. So that’s why...Dorothea…” he whispered in contrition, as Ingrid blushed scarlet. He stammered an apology. “My Lady, I am so sorry for offending and embarrassing you. I must be the dullest witted and least sensitive noble in all of Fódlan!”

“Well, no argument here,” said Sylvain, raising his cup to his lips again. “But thanks for trying to raise our spirits, buddy.”

“Wait...we have not yet finished our toast!” protested Ferdinand, retrieving his cup and saucer, barely managing to forestall the class rascal. The former class rascal, Lorenz supposed, even as he listened to Ferdinand wind himself up for a speech. “I propose that we must let ourselves acknowledge what we feel. There will always be sadness, and disappointment, and anger,” the Imperial noble said firmly, nodding to each of them in turn. “But there will also be joy, and love, and happiness in the days to come. I honestly believe that you, Lord Gautier, will fulfill your promises to yourself...and to others. I honestly believe that you, Lady Galatea, will be completely accepted for who you are, a peerless warrior who upholds the spirit of Knighthood, not its rules and strictures. And I honestly believe that you, Lord Gloucester, will achieve your birthright and your own strength, because no matter what I know you are a good man who will never abandon those in need. So let this toast be our pledge to each other, that we will never cease to strive, or train, or fight to improve ourselves, despite our heavy burdens!” He stood tall from his seat on Lorenz’s bed, raising his teacup high.

Ingrid bubbled into something between a laugh and a sob at the display. She rose as well. “You three are all egotistical, dramatic assholes.” The three men winced but she smiled and said, “But you’re all some of the most true and loyal people I know.”

“I think that safely settles the question of whether or not you have a type, Ingrid,” teased Sylvain, standing next to her with his small mug in salute and bumping her elbow. She stomped on his foot in response, reflexively, but was unable to glare at him. He winced familiarly but raised his own mug high. “Thanks, guys. I’m sorry for getting caught up in my own head. I think friendship sounds much better idea than what I proposed,” he said with a wan smile.

The last to rise, Lorenz smiled at each of them, caught up in the moment. “May we all remain loyal friends in the future,” he said quietly, blinking quickly at the multitude of emotions. He raised his cup to his lips.

Ferdinand took his opportunity. “More than that! Let us be...Crest Friends for life!” grinned the Prime Minister’s son, before smoothly swallowing his now cold infused tea in a gulp. Lorenz, in mid-swallow himself, snorted alcoholic liquid all over his clothes at the truly horrible, shamefully lame pun. Ingrid and Sylvain fared little better, even if their loud laughter was tinged with bitterness.

After all, it was all too true.

* * *

Hapi sat bleakly in her cell, back in the darkness, her maid uniform ripped and torn, her skin stinging and aching with welts and bruises. She thought she might cry, or sigh, like she had done when she was younger in these situations. But now the dark void surrounding her simply mirrored the one in her soul, and now she sat numbly on the piss soaked straw, avoiding thought and retreating deep within herself. It had been years since they had last seen each other, but Cornelia...or was her name really Calliope?...was determined to make up for the lost time.

Against her will, she recalled the one interesting, nonpainful part of the day. That man, Hubert. He was an Academy student, it was obvious from his uniform, and an Imperial to boot. Vestra, they had called him. Supposedly that was one of the super noble Houses in the Adrestian Empire, one of the members of the Insurrection. She had thought he must be another fart-catching noble traitor to humanity, working with these monsters. But then he had displayed compassion to her. Not a whole lot. But enough to risk himself in trying to talk to her via magical telepathy. Maybe she wouldn’t kill him when she escaped.

If she escaped.

_There’s probably a ‘Cornelia’ in the Alliance too. They mentioned a Lord Arundel...he’s the Imperial Regent, isn’t he? Coco would know. But it means these fucksticks are all over the fucking map. Of course shitty nobles follow them, because most of them probably ARE them. Fucking Goddess damned lizard people everywhere. I’ll bet Lady Rhea and her Knights are them too. They mentioned fighting the Church of Seiros constantly. Probably an old fight over which lizardbrain gets to sit on top of Fódlan or some shit._

She tried to snuggle into the cold hard stone, dragging the thin, foul smelling blanket Cornelia and Myson had “generously” provided her around herself. At least she knew better now, compared to what passed for her teenage youth, always vainly trying to please a thing that could never be pleased. She knew Cornelia was abuse personified, but compliance was the only option for survival. And her friends had told her repeatedly that no matter what they had done to her body, inside her own soul and mind she was free. Hapi thoughts drifted to the good times, when Coco had made her try espresso for the first time (she didn’t sleep for two days) or that time when Big B had made a fortune betting on street fights (most of which he had personally instigated). Then Yuri-bird had swindled the entire pot from the large lug in less than a day. Slowly her lips drew into a small smile. The memories of friends laughing and acting out with their ridiculous personalities made her feel marginally better.

Despite the cold discomfort, she managed a tired doze for some time when she heard a chirruping trill in the black dungeons, and the sound of little feet scratching past the metal bars of her cell.

< _Nice Biglegs! Mother Biglegs! I’m back! > _

Unconsciously she sighed, blinking her eyes uselessly open. Ugh. The rat. She was stupid, so completely stupid to think a rat might help her escape from this hell. But at the same time, she was also starved for companionship. Maybe the rat could drop a turd inside Cornelia’s bedsheets, at least.

Sighing, she held a sore hand out to the rat, clumsily stroking its body. Probably flea infested, but that would be the least horrible thing that happened to her today. She opened her thoughts to the small creature. _Hey, little one. Sorry if I’m tired. Bad Biglegs hurt me today._

The small animal was sympathetic. _ <I’m sorry. Bad Biglegs is bad.> _ The rat nodded wisely at this profound thought, then sang out again. _ <But Mother Biglegs is so nice, and shares blood with us! I brought some of me/we/us to share too!> _

More skittering and squeaks in the darkness. The cell was quickly alive and crawling with vermin, and Hapi hissed indignantly and pushed herself blindly back into a moist, hard corner, suddenly frightened and clutching her sodden blanket around her..

 _Wait! That wasn’t our deal. Food for thoughtfood, right? And just you. I don’t want to be eaten by rats!_ Her last thought was a mental scream of raw panic.

Hissing and more squeaks. Multiple chirrups and trills, then the lone, solitary rat scrambled up to her in the corner, whispering in her mind. < _But...I’ve changed, since you let me drink from you. You’re our Mother. I keep telling me/we/us that, but they don’t believe me. You have to show them. I told me/we/us you’re a good Biglegs, and Notfood. You’re like us. You made me like this. You’re my Mother. > _

Slowly, through the hash of her thoughts and the intense soreness of her body, she understood. Drinking her blood had changed the rat. Made it smarter. Perhaps stronger. It had asserted a leadership role among its fellows. It identified itself as unique, now, separate from the pack of its fellows.

Was this from the constant experiments and magic Cornelia had inflicted upon her? Was it a side effect of her own Crest blood? Her involuntary Dark Magic training? Right now she didn’t know and she didn’t care. This was possibly her out. If she could control and dominate every rat in the castle, then maybe…

 _Okay._ Hapi grunted as she roused herself in the dark, scratching at a scabby, blistery burn Cornelia had left on her arm from the fireplace poker hours before. Wincing at the sting, she squeezed it, the pinched drops of her fluids falling to the stone floor, ignoring the sensation of her skin crawling as the multitude of rats crowded around it, skittering and lapping eagerly. _Here you go. Dinner time. And if you guys can get me free of this place, I’ll happily give my blood to any rat I see._

The leader rat sent a familiar, yowling squeak as it took its share. < _Nice Biglegs! Me/we/us love you! And I love you too! > _

* * *

It was late at night at Garreg Mach when Hubert finally returned. Edelgard was already cross at him by having to cover for his absence, and was currently scowling at the forged letter he presented to her in her room that duplicated Lonato’s handwriting perfectly.

She set it aside on her writing desk, her lip curling in disgust. “This plot is foolish. We’re being controlled by idiots. How they conquered the Empire and Kingdom from the shadows, killed nearly my entire family, and engineered the Tragedy is beyond me,” she hissed in displeasure, pacing in tight circles.

Hubert bowed low. “I have a hypothesis to that very question, although I would have liked more observation before I make an induction. But the more simple answer to your question is that they did so with help, from petty, stupid, greedy, selfish men. Men like my father, who can scorn tradition and honor in private yet mumble platitudes and pieties that earn them recognition in public. The very fact that they did conquer the Empire, overthrowing the entire Empire with a simple coup that ignored thousands of years of honored service, only confirms your ideals, Lady Edelgard. The Empire and rest of Fódlan is in dire need of reform, and that may only come about with our own revolution.”

His speech calmed her somewhat. She had been feeling too testy and impatient since leaving Byleth’s room this afternoon, allowing the tired, overwhelmed young Knight some privacy and rest. “You are right. And these events, as exciting as they have been, proves that we were correct to come to Garreg Mach to scout it out. But there is currently too much attention now on the Central Church for us to move in but the most oblique ways possible. I am writing a letter to my ‘Uncle’ and providing copies to the other Lords who support us. We will be postponing the campaign.”

A discreet cough from her retainer. “That will be expensive, my Lady. Revenues this year have already been strained to the breaking point, according to Lord Hevring.”

Edelgard shook her head in firm denial. “The soldiers can always use more training, and there is enough unrest pouring in from Faerghus and the Alliance that ‘securing our borders’ should act as the appropriate excuse. We can also furlough some of the men back to their homes, to help ensure a generous harvest this year. That will raise morale. Along with the other rebellions and uprising this successful attack has sparked, no noble or Church official should be the wiser as we rotate our forces. But to attempt another attack now, when nearly every major noble in Fódlan will be at Garreg Mach for the Rite of Rebirth and to gawk over the ‘Saint Reborn,’ would be utter madness. And not a soul will believe that poor Ashe has anything to do with such a plot. Not when he fought bravely against his own Lord Father just two days before!” she nearly ended with a shout, having faith in Hubert’s spell of silence on her room.

“My Lady? What do you mean by ‘every noble in Fódlan?’”

In response, Edelgard handed him a small note from her desk.

It was from Claude. He read it:

_Hey Princess!_

_Sorry things didn’t work out quickly with Dimitri. I managed to visit, and I think I feel slightly guilty for all the teasing I’ve made him endure. I saw the scars. The poor guy has been through enough. For now._

_So just a heads up, we’re shifting the Alliance Roundtable Conference this year from Derdriu to Garreg Mach. I think a few extra hundred troops and retainers will help me sleep here at night. And maybe give the Church a chance to help rebuild. I mean, that’s a useful life skill, right? Corpses don’t vanish off the battlefield, and someone always has to clean up after there’s a battle, I’ve come to realize. Otherwise you get plague and dysentery and all that lovely stuff._

_I know things are strained right now between the Prime Minister and your dad, but can we count on Adrestia’s support for this goodwill mission? It doesn’t have to be a big deal, but a small token gesture would be appreciated._

_Claude_

Edelgard saw Hubert shake his head in true admiration as he finished reading. “Claude is far more savvy than he appears, it seems. I see now why you postponed the campaign. He has thoroughly checkmated us for the season, through no fault of our own.”

“Which I could _tell_ my idiot monster of an ‘Uncle’ if he simply listened for once,” Edelgard growled, working herself up back into a rage, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “If he trusted me and my advice, we wouldn’t be in this mess. For example, I could say, do not give Lonato an ancient superweapon from the War of Heroes, Uncle, that’s a bad idea. I could gently suggest, hello, dear Uncle Arundel, don’t send out mages who can make fog to help mask Lonato’s approach. These things might make things _slightly_ more difficult for your precious pet weapon to assassinate Rhea.”

Hubert nearly flinched at her last words at the end of her rant. The Imperial regard instantly upon him, he bowed low and said, “I think...your thoughts are aligning with my own, Lady Edelgard. The things I witnessed in Castle Hyrm…” he trailed off, and to Edelgard’s astonishment, Hubert shuddered in revulsion. Then he stood tall and at attention once more. “Forgive me my lapse. But there are things I must tell you. I unexpectedly met Cornelia Arnim, along with her own ‘pet,’ a Crested woman she called Hapi. This woman may possibly be...even more powerful than yourself. It was her who forced Jeritza to use a Warp spell to flee from the monastery and expose himself. It bodes ill for our future.”

Edelgard felt a dark chill at his words, even though it was warm in her room. “What do you mean? Explain yourself plainly, Hubert. I am too tired for word games at the moment.”

“My Lady...where did those beasts that suddenly invaded Garreg Mach come from?” he asked grimly.

“I assumed there were more Agarthan mages, hiding in the town below,” replied Edelgard, a frown on her delicate face.

“It was...but perhaps not in the way you might think. And this ties into my theory of Arundel and his ilk, and perhaps Rhea herself. After watching and studying them, I believe immortality breeds a certain...complacency. Idleness. Disinterest, and then an ignorance of consequences. What must then follow is the destruction of all rational thought, at least from our perspective. Since meeting Cornelia’s pet, this poor sorry girl Hapi, and of learning of Cornelia’s goals for her, I think I now have an inkling of Agartha’s ultimate objective.”

Hubert had his liege’s full attention. “Say on.”

“This woman bears a Crest of Timotheus, one of the Lost Crests of the Four Apostles,” he reported. “But that is not her most amazing trait. She is the one who can summon monsters, Lady Edelgard. By herself. A legion of them, if she wills it. She has been experimented upon extensively, by that cruel witch.”

Edelgard felt a pang of empathy for this Hapi. Another one like her. “And how does this ability tie into Agartha’s goals?” she asked.

“We only had time for brief mental contact. But she told me of how she has been used to summon beasts to kill. Randomly, indiscriminately. They have tortured this woman to become a weapon, like you, yet they do not use her in any military capacity. Instead, they use her to target civilians. Undercutting our own populations, our own economic bases. And they seek to make many more like her.”

“I am having trouble following, Hubert…”

“I believe we have been misled ever since the beginning, Lady Edelgard,” explained Hubert, spreading his hands. “This cult wishes to topple Rhea, that was not a lie, but I now suspect they could have done so easily with the resources at their disposal. The dragon does occasionally leave her nest to visit the faithful in other churches, after all. So why not assassinate her then and there, like did with the Tragedy? They did not need the Empire for that end. They do not need summoned monsters. And have they not already taken over the Western Church, one fourth of the Holy Body? Do they not have one of their greatest mages, already secreted here at Garreg Mach? No, I think that they lied about what comes afterwards, and what they are using girls like Hapi for. What they are using the Crest Beasts for. Their true goal is...pure destruction. Genocide.”

“Of all Nabateans?” asked Edelgard, raising a white brow.

Her retainer’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Of all humanity. Of _all_ surfacers who have been ‘corrupted’ by draconic blood, according to their ridiculous religion. After all, we are all worms, in their eyes. Less than nothing. Entirely disposable. Although perhaps they will keep several hundred Crest-bearing…’pets,’” finished Hubert grimly. “I think that is their final aim. To topple the Church, the nobility, the governments, and finally the people of Fódlan until there is...no one left. Nothing left. A cleansed land, ripe and ready for their recolonization.”

Edelgard sat heavily on her bed, her violet eyes staring at nothing. She was silent for long minutes, as Hubert waited patiently by her side.

It wasn’t carelessness, like she had assumed. It wasn’t stupidity. It wasn’t even malignant evil, cruelty for cruelty’s sake, as Dimitri had once innocently guessed at their tea party.

It was calculation.

And Hubert’s theory made the events of the previous months and years make horrible, suspicious sense. Every person in Fódlan, whether dead from sword, fang, or starvation, was one less beast to hunt down and eradicate for the Agarthans later. She recalled the senseless massacres. The utter indifference to suffering and torture and death, safe and secure in their own power and omniscience. The blasé attitudes on whether their plots succeeded or failed. So long as “beasts” died or killed each other, it was all a win from their perspective.

Edelgard had always accepted the possibility of failure in her iconoclastic campaign against the Church. In many ways, she almost welcomed it, awaiting the day she could rejoin the rest of her family and finally sleep in peace, untroubled by nightmares. But now she coldly knew if she followed this path alone, that was all it would lead to. Thales would make certain her wars would never cease, against her will, possibly continuing against Brigid and Dagda and Almyra, until he finally discarded her like a useless, broken tool. Then he would casually select a new one among the nobility as if he was shopping for a new article of clothing. A new weapon, a new Flame Emperor, manipulated to wage war against its own kind. More innocent children and their families would inevitably suffer.

The Princess was long used to the feeling of forcing her will upon the world, of bending its shape until it made sense to her. Of forging meaning from meaninglessness. Of cutting a path out of the darkness and the chains of her own mind, even if it was one soaked in blood. Yet the scale of this horror was...incalculable. Inconceivable. Incomprehensible.

And at its end, there would be no more children left. No more families. No more people.

And now Edelgard did not know what to do.

* * *

Dorothea slowly roused herself from her bed at the insistent knocks on her door. “Coming!” she called, trying to brush her locks into a semblance of order and wrapping a robe tightly around herself, securing it with cord with a loose knot, a burning flame on her finger as she cast about for a lamp, a candle, anything with a wick to ditch the spell on her hand. She nearly set her own hair on fire in the process before she finally found one. The knocks grew louder and more rhythmic as she lit another lamp. “By the Five Saints, stop it! I’m almost to the door!” she shouted, trying to secure her loose hair with one last glance in the mirror, noting that her face looked like Professor Manuela’s after a hard breakup. Slowing her breathing and adding a tiny stage smile, she opened her door for the asshole trying to beat it down.

Emerald green eyes under a blonde mane met her own in the dim light of stars and distant torches.

“Ingrid! 

“Hey, Dorothea!” smiled the blonde goofily, catching herself on the door frame and leaning against it. Her face was definitely flushed. “You look great!”

The last words confirmed it. The actress sighed to herself, picturing what must have happened clearly, on Ingrid’s last night at the Academy. “You’re drunk, aren’t you? Let me guess. Sylvain?”

“Got it in one!” the noblewoman giggled. The Black Eagle regarded her with something between amusement and exasperation. It would have been adorable if it wasn’t so annoying. Dorothea had spent too many late evenings with Professor Manuela, too many nights with inebriated nobles and wealthy merchants, to find the practice appealing. She also didn’t feel safe when drunk herself, and that loss of control with drunkeness only magnified her own insecurities. Ingrid recovered from her giggling fit. “He said we had to make the most of our last night at Garreg Mach. So we all got in Lorenz’s room, and Ferdie was there, and we had such a good time, we’re now the Crest Friendsh Shquad,” the noblewoman said, then frowned at her diction. She tried again. “Cresht Friends Squalld,” she slurred, then gave up and brightened. “Anyway, we’re all Crest Cruddies now!” she snickered again, leaning hard against the door. 

“Mhmm-hmm,” hummed Dorothea, raising an eyebrow. “So what couldn’t wait in the middle of the night until you were more...rested? In the morning?”

The noblewoman sobered somewhat, trying to stand up straight. Well, straighter. “I...wanted to thank you. For your gift, even though it’s too much. I want you to take some of it back, but,” Ingrid paused, and swallowed thickly. “I do also like the fact I could...take something back to my family. Something that I could use to...repay them for sending me here.”

Dorothea turned her smile into a smirk. “And what happened to, and I quote, ‘respecting other peoples’ decisions?’” she asked. Seeing Ingrid flinch at the question, she softened the tease. “It’s okay, Ingrid. I want you to have them. Something you can take from me to remember me by.”

Blowing out a long, unsteady breath, Ingrid said nervously, “Well, I also thought maybe I could visit with you and we could, y’know, talk...one last time?” she asked anxiously. Whispered it, more like. She suddenly looked very small and vulnerable in the shadows, shyly averting her face. Likely recalling everything the last time they had spoken honestly to each other. And where it might lead them.

Dorothea eyebrows rose high on her forehead. She really should say no to her. It was possible for this to go wrong on many levels, but her heart was already aching at the thought of Ingrid being leagues away from her, and being forbidden from ever seeing her again, even as a friend. Being forced to live apart while knowing that Ingrid was being used to become something they both knew she wasn’t and would never be.

None of this so much as flickered on the actress’ face. Instead, her face softened and she smiled gently. “Of course, my dear. One last time,” she nodded to Ingrid, holding her door open wider.

The noblewoman tried to enter with her dignity intact, attempting to hold her spine erect as she stepped through the threshold.

Dorothea softly closed the door behind her.

In the darkness by the doorway, it happened so very fast. 

Ingrid was close to her, practically vibrating and radiating with heat, and suddenly Dorothea discovered that she was pinning against the noblewoman hard into the wall, her robe falling open, with the desperate, pleading, shivering moans into own her open mouth telling her that her sweet Ingrid did not mind that, not one bit.

As they kissed and groped and rubbed into each other frantically, Dorothea’s analytical trained mind, the one that judged and detailed every blemish, stumble, and missed line, reminded slyly she was taking advantage of Ingrid. A foolish noblewoman who wasn’t capable of consent at this moment. The worthless, trashy street rat was turning into quite the manipulative little hypocrite, wasn’t she? Using someone’s body when they were desperate and out of options. All for a relationship that had been doomed from the start.

Consciously, contemptuously, Dorothea banished all rational thought from her mind, bending her head low to nip at Ingrid’s muscular neck. It caused a needy, jerky motion from Ingrid’s body in response. Ingrid’s voice rose into a musical whine and Dorothea felt her own skin flush and desire flame between her legs, which had somehow clamped over Ingrid’s broad, flexing thigh like a vise.

If one last night was all that they were going to have together, then Dorothea Arnault was going to make certain that she absolutely ruined Lady Ingrid Brandl Galatea for anyone else.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roger Debris: Tell me what you think! Be honest, be brutal!
> 
> Kharma Gia: Well as far as I'm concerned, without your wig you're only half-dressed.


End file.
